We're Okay
by HyperMint
Summary: This is a story about friendship and radio silence, panic and loss and finding something that was really always there. About how drastically lives were altered even before anyone knew it. But, perhaps, this is really a story about lakes, rocks and ripples. Because, at the heart, that's really what 9/11 is.
1. Tommy

Summary: This is a story about friendship and radio silence, panic and loss and finding something that was really always there. About how drastically lives were altered even before anyone knew it.

But, perhaps, this is really a story about lakes, rocks and ripples.

Because, at the heart, that's really what 9/11 is.

* * *

Disclaimer: Elementary belongs to CBS and all the wonderful people who make the show possible.

AN: Tags are as follows: September 11 Attacks, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Anxiety, Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family, Team as Family, Nightmares, Flashbacks, Suspension of Disbelief, Creative License, slight AU, slight Character Backstory, TRIGGERS, POV Alternating, possible Out of Character (?)

The Tags:

\- 'Suspension of Disbelief' is up there because there are certain elements that I wholeheartedly believe are, in fact, possible, but I know that not everyone does. Some 'Creative License' elements are in here, especially in regards to Canon. There are also other things that are included here, which falls into both 'Suspension of Disbelief' and 'Creative License'. 'Slight AU' is in regards to Gregson being single at this point - Paige may not be in the picture just yet, for example - and Bell is still with Chantal.

\- Joan might be a few years younger, but not more than five, and Marcus is at least two years older than he might be in the show. This is to fit within the timeline, while leaving room for error. At this point, I'm not sure what Marcus was doing before, but I'm under the impression that he might've been a cadet on 9/11 so he's at least old enough to have been one at that time.

-Mostly, this is not a romance story of any kind, but there might be some... certain things that are open to interpretation. But nothing really that important to the story.

The Story:

\- I have no explanation for this. I was actually checking out all these books and watching these documentaries for a different story and naturally this ended up being 'Elementary'. Imagine my chagrin.

\- There is no offense to anyone intended with this story. I apologize if you do find something that you disagree with, but just understand that no offense is meant.

\- Because of the subject matter, please know that Reader Discretion is Advised.

\- There are four chapters comprised of parts: 'Tommy' is all just one part, as is 'Marcus'. 'Sherlock' has two parts and 'Joan' has two parts plus the 'Epilogue'. It is not recommended to push the 'Entire Work' button. You can, but it is not recommended just in case something happens and you lose your place.

\- I am actually kind of nervous about this one and I hope you... enjoy? So, here it is.

*To those who can't talk about it, who think they can handle a situation until they're in it, who want so badly to understand the ones around them, who wouldn't be the people they are today without 9/11. This is for you.*

* * *

* PART ONE *

* * *

His thoughts, for the first time in almost two decades, were silent as his eyes blankly stared at what remained of an eleven story building.

They'd been unable to stop the bombs going off, but they had managed to evacuate the area and buildings around it so there were no casualties.

At least, he'd hoped there were no casualties.

Not like –

Not like the last time he was almost taken out by a collapsing building.

This one, however, wasn't nearly as tall or with a twin, so there was that.

But, damn, just the wreckage of an eleven story building –

 _He stared at the smoking pile of… of… twisted metal and steel and – and rubble-ized concrete that probably wasn't actually a word, but hell. Just… just a few hours ago, that was two 110-story buildings and –_

 _He walked away from that?_

 _Alive?_

"Captain?" a hand gently touched his elbow and a breath blew out of him as he remembered his surroundings and the years of supposed distance.

"Yeah?" he tore his eyes away and found the almond shaped dark eyes of Joan Watson watching him from under a very fine layer of dust that covered her from top to bottom.

A vague memory of curling around a smaller figure jolted him fully to the present and he managed to restrain himself enough to keep his strength gentle when he almost desperately clutched her shoulders as his frantic gaze scanned her for injuries.

"You're alright?" he couldn't see any injuries, but he had enough sense to remember why he couldn't actually wrestle her clothes off so he could be absolutely sure. Still, he'd tossed her into the wall pretty solidly before pressing tightly into her to keep her from being hit when the building came down. "We need you in the hospital for a complete physical," he carefully turned her so he could run a careful hand down her spine and tried not to think of how thin she felt to him.

He, somewhere on some level, knew that Holmes had worked his brand of training on her and she had muscle and could take care of herself, but he just had to be absolutely sure for his own piece of mind because she was physically so damn small compared to Bell who was more her height. Not that Tommy wouldn't be checking him for injuries, either, despite he and Holmes being at least a few miles from them.

Not that a few miles made a difference on 9/11, but still.

Better Holmes be as far from this as they could get him because there was no doubt in any of their minds that he would've gotten himself blown up or buried and he'd be just one more person they had no remains to bury in addition to the ones they'd never found – one more he couldn't save that would haunt him for years – one more heartbeat silenced due to someone's stupid nonsensical ideologies that –

"Captain, it's okay," Joan's voice was calm as her hand squeezed his wrist, his hands sandwiching her between them with one hand on her heart and the other in the same position on her back. "I'm fine. We're both okay."

"Yeah," he swallowed around his dry throat, having already spat dust out, desperately trying not to think of the thin body being crushed under ton after ton after _ton_ of twisted metal and steel and he knew that big hefty guys had been compacted to dust when those Twins fell and they had never found anything despite all those hours and all those volunteers and the thought of the thin body – his _friend_ – being so completely _gone_ without a trace –

"Captain Gregson? Tommy? You need to listen to my voice," Joan's grip had become tighter to anchor him as his panic threated to drown him. "You need to breathe, Tommy. Breathe. You're in shock and on the edge of a panic attack. We are fine, it is 2017, we are not at Ground Zero and it is not 9/11. You are fine and I am fine and I need you to stay with me, do you understand? Marcus, Sherlock and a lot of others are making their way here to us right now. You need to stay with me, okay? Tommy?"

His legs weren't holding him up anymore and he was suddenly on the ground, the fragile body tucked tightly into his because he might not save her from the crushing weight, but he would make damned sure _something was left_.

No one should be disappeared so completely that the only trace of them was left to float into the air and into lungs and he wasn't going to let that happen to her if he could help it.

The beat pressed tightly into him, the warmth, the soothing voice was eventually all he could recognize, sense, _understand_.

Everything else was a black haze, the other voices, the new arrivals, the others trying to call his attention like a guiding light drowned out by an even brighter light that called him to protect it with everything he still had.

He woke up in a hospital room with Holmes against the door, Bell at the window and Joan right next to his bed so she could hold his hand.

"Hey," she must've seen his looking around with confusion and Holmes was suddenly standing at her shoulder.

"Captain," the British accent rolled over him as Bell ambled over to stand on his other side.

"Hey. Back with us?" his Detective seemed just as concerned as their Consulting Detectives, their features tight with worry. Even Holmes, which Tommy thought kind of funny considering his 'arm's length' façade that they usually fell for.

At times like this, though, his mask dropped for them to see.

"What happened?" Tommy managed, Joan wordlessly spooning melted ice chips into his mouth.

"The building went down," Holmes shifted uncomfortably. "The Bomb Units were unable to prevent it, but Detective Bell and myself did manage to identify the party responsible and turned him over to the appropriate authorities."

The sullen tone, subtle thought it was, told him that Bell came up with the idea while Holmes was probably plotting the disappearance. Despite the continuous offers, no one actually wanted to take the chance that the man would somehow end up in jail for murder.

"We managed to get close enough to see the collapse," Bell picked up, "but not close enough to see where everyone was. Luckily, everyone had left the area and there were no serious injuries that came up."

"No casualties," Holmes confirmed with a head bob. "The Firefighters had all checked in, as did all but the two of you after the collapse."

"You weren't answering the radio," Bell almost admonished, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "A lot of people thought you'd been cleared from the hot zone, but you weren't answering our calls."

It took a long moment for the past couple days to trickle back, but Tommy remembered being inside the building and getting the word to evacuate. Joan had been standing right next to him and he thought he might have tossed her over his shoulder before hauling ass as far as he thought he could get.

It got kind of fuzzy after that.

There was something about The Worst Day of his Life and Joan getting buried, but that didn't make sense because he'd been with her the entire time… hadn't he?

"Everyone's fine," Joan broke into his thoughts. "We're okay. It's just the properties that were damaged. It did… bring up some… some memories, though," she reluctantly admitted.

Tommy immediately turned an assessing look on her, noting the exhaustion mixed with the relief and lingering concern. "You were there?" he asked softly.

"Um, not at the actual site. Well, not until the next day, but I ran into a hospital nearest my place at the time. To see if I could help," she gave a graceful shrug and looked away.

"Did you?" Holmes hadn't been there when it happened, the adopted New Yorker would never have first-hand knowledge of what everyone else had, but he took care to pick up on cues the rest of them gave off. This being Joan meant the Brit was extra tuned in, his usually confident body language absent as he studied his roommate and partner almost uncertainly.

For everything Holmes was an expert in, 9/11 wasn't one of them. Add those involved – like Joan – and he was clearly lost at sea.

She was silent for a long moment before wordlessly shaking her head.

"Too bad to help?" Bell asked sympathetically. "I was assigned to Jersey, but people were coming off the ferries in shock. Figured it was worse when people started talking about jumpers."

"Too 'not there' to help," she corrected, still avoiding their eyes. "We were ready to, um, to do just about everything to these patients, but they… they just never showed up. It. It wasn't until later that I realized why."

The patients had either been dead or there'd been nothing left.

"Damn," Bell winced in sympathy, filling in the blanks on his own. "Not sure which is worse; actually bein' there or waitin' to do something."

Tommy wouldn't know. He'd been there and hadn't done a whole lot of waiting. Maybe he'd be on the other end one day and wasn't that a horrible thought?

"Waiting, I think," Joan gave a tight humorless smile as they descended into silence.

Tommy nodded slightly and watched their clasped hands for long moments before catching sight of Holmes' fingers twitching against his side.

To no one's surprise after this long of knowing him, he broke the silence at last. A silence that the rest of them wouldn't break. Couldn't.

"Well," he cleared his throat. "It's – it's good to see you well after this morning."

Hell, it had been about lunchtime, hadn't it.

"How long have I been out?" Tommy frowned.

"I suspect it's almost supper, actually," Holmes didn't even hesitate, not even glancing at the time. "Night had fallen some time past."

So, he'd been out roughly six or more hours.

No little wonder with the lack of sleep he'd been getting already this close to 9/11.

Damn bombing case.

"Nothin' we can do tonight," Tommy rubbed his eyes.

"I had the same thought," Holmes nodded jerkily, "so I took the liberty of requesting a few extra hours for both yourself and Marcus for tomorrow. If you like to take tomorrow off for yourselves…"

Tommy normally hated the thought of anyone going over his head or thinking he couldn't do his job no matter what – and Bell was the same way -, but this was Holmes and neither one could get pissed at him.

Not now.

Especially with the man trying to be thoughtful in the aftermath of a jarring reminder that he couldn't understand.

"Thanks, man," Bell nodded at him with a slight smile tinged with relief. "Had lunch plans, so at least I'll make that."

"Of course," a bit of surprise flashed over his usually controlled features as something about him loosened from the tightly strung figure he normally presented. "I – you're welcome."

Poor kid expected to be shot or something, most likely.

If it were any other case, he probably would've been.

At any other time of the year.

This wasn't any other case at any other time of the year and Tommy was just grateful he didn't have to struggle with pushing back the bubbling memories immediately.

Not that he was going to actually say that.

"I'll let it slide this time," he allowed.

"Of course, of course," Holmes readily agreed as he nodded a bit more. "You have my word."

The Brit seemed to be at somewhat of a loss and Tommy felt a kind of sympathy as he struggled to find something else to be helpful with.

It was something Tommy noticed about him over the years, the need to fix something for those he let inside his high walls regardless of what they themselves wanted.

For this, however, it was something bigger than Holmes. Something he didn't understand and something he couldn't fix.

While Tommy was sympathetic to his helplessness, there was also a savage kind of relief he would probably feel bad about later that Holmes didn't know, wouldn't ever know, what it was like.

After the hell the Brit already went through in his life, 9/11 wasn't going to be one of them, and Tommy had never been so thankful for anything else in the course of their years of knowing each other.

It had done so much damage to people like Tommy and Bell and everyone else that it would have destroyed the man beyond any limit he thought he could take.

But despite the hopeless need to fix something that had changed so much even this far gone, that didn't mean he couldn't do anything at all.

"I will go find a medical authority, then," Holmes was gone before anyone could stop him.

"Yeah, I don't think they'll let you stay overnight," Joan found her voice and found the cup with more water than ice, Tommy absently using his free hand to take the offered cup.

He hadn't realized how thirsty he was before throwing back ice and water, Bell almost immediately replacing it with another cup.

Holmes came back with a doctor and Tommy was released an hour later, one of the other three having brought a change of clothes for him.

"No offense," he frowned at the offered bag, "but I'm gonna have a shower first."

"The Brownstone is welcome to you if you'd like," Holmes rocked back on his heels as hands clasped each other behind his back. "Marcus has already offered to drive us back."

Tommy glanced at his Detective, who shrugged.

"Always room for one more, sir," a small smile played around the younger man's mouth.

"And I already took a shower," Joan assured, "so the bathroom's all yours."

"Sounds good," Tommy just wanted a shower. "Thanks, you two. And for the ride, Bell."

"Don't worry about it," Bell assured as they climbed into his car.

They got to the Brownstone and he was in the shower almost before he knew it.

He would probably ask later why there was a set of his preferred toiletries sitting under the sink right alongside a set of Bell's preferred toiletries, but the familiar scent of his own soap and shampoo chased away the feeling of grit helped along by water as hot as he could stand. It chased away the smell he always caught inexplicable whiffs of all year round, of lingering jet fuel, of hopeless effort to search and rescue, of nightmares and alcohol and bitter tears of regret that all of them shed at one point or another.

He'd tossed his formerly favorite scents in the garbage in the days following 9/11 because he started to realize that those scents had been dragging him back to the Pile again and again and he couldn't keep doing it.

The scents this time, however, soothed him and reminded him that he wasn't there anymore.

This was a time further on, a time he'd survived beyond all his expectation, and the sight of the Brownstone's subtle female presence definitely helped him remember that he hadn't been at the Pile this time. This time was just too damn close.

He was just placing his shampoo back on the self when he caught sight of what was undoubtedly Holmes' shampoo.

Almost before he realized it, the other man's shampoo was being lathered into his own already washed hair. He couldn't be sorry about it, either, because the scent called to mind recent incidents where he'd inadvertently caught scent of the shampoo in passing and thinking of that led to thoughts of Holmes and his antics and the reminder that he'd met him long after 9/11. He was settled in an odd way as he turned off the shower, found clean towels and clothes waiting for him, found his old clothes gone and tried to remember if he'd locked the door. Not that it would make a lick of difference, anyway, considering the fact that Holmes and Joan knew how to pick locks.

He replaced his used bottles back under the sink and wondered again at their presence in the Brownstone's bathroom. While it finally answered the question of who kept leaving his and Bell's preferred toiletry brands under the Department Christmas Tree every year, it didn't exactly explain why.

Then again, perhaps it was the same reason he ran across Bell at a grocery store last month, trying to work out what a 'Jammie Dodger' was as his basket already held a few imported European things with what looked like the Asian snacks they'd become fond of after 'team stakeouts' with Joan and Holmes. It explained how the Detective always seemed to be ready to accompany either one on a stakeout.

Hell, he himself realized just last week that Bell's half empty coffee creamer was in his fridge, his half used coffee blend was sitting on the shelf next to Tommy's own, he had three and a half containers of tea he didn't even _like_ and a tea strainer.

Naturally, while using said tea strainer, he also realized he actually knew how to make tea.

So, really, it wasn't a mystery that his and Bell's toiletries were in the Brownstone's bathroom.

He shook his head and made his way out of the bathroom, passing the free-ranging Clyde as the Tortoise shuffled his way in the other direction, and joined Joan and Bell in the kitchen to find a cup of coffee waiting for him. "Where's Holmes?" he took a seat at the table and blinked slightly at the Great Wall of China as it ringed the cup he'd unconsciously chosen a long time ago.

"Said he'd be back," Bell lifted his shoulder in a shrug as he sipped from a cup that had red lanterns all around it. Tommy remembered when Bell looked up the writing on the Internet, once, to find it meant 'Good Luck'. "Not sure where he went."

"I think I have an idea about that," Joan came to the table with decaf tea in her brown-rimmed blue cup, a green cup with the 'Yin/Yang' symbol sliding into the empty space between her and Bell.

Funny how many cups Holmes managed to destroy on a daily basis and, yet, these same four cups were never touched.

"What's your idea?" Tommy couldn't help the smile that crossed his face at the first sip. The warmth chased away the soul deep cold that even the shower hadn't been able to reach.

"Not that it's a bad idea," she frowned. "It _is_ dinnertime, after all, and I'm feeling hungry."

"I think we just been dragged to dinner," Bell didn't look at all like he minded and Tommy damn sure didn't, either.

Going back to an empty house and being by himself was daunting tonight.

"I think it's Chinese this time," Joan mused.

"And I'm tellin' you right now," Bell deadpanned, "someone gonna get their ass kicked if they pick tonight to mug somebody with my dinner."

"Sherlock would get there first," she commented dryly.

Tommy believed it. The last time somebody tried to mug Holmes, the guy practically dove into the patrol car begging them to lock him up and keep the 'crazy ass British Ninja' away from him.

Luckily, however, Holmes appeared shortly thereafter with delicious smelling Chinese containers in tow.

The rest of the night alternated between banter and comfortable silence, Tommy drinking it all in and letting the three of them chase what shadows and cold still remained.

He woke up sprawled on the couch as Clyde the Tortoise shuffled past early morning patches of light, Bell dead to the world on a plump sleeping bag as Joan was curled up on a two seater sofa with a blanket tossed over her.

The empty armchair pulled up in a spot to watch them all sleep showed where Holmes had settled and Tommy eventually hauled himself up and trekked to the kitchen, the Brit already starting breakfast.

They spent the morning at the Brownstone until Tommy reluctantly felt ready to get to the office and Bell had to get ready for lunch. Neither could stay at the Brownstone forever, but Tommy was very close to turning right back around and walking back there upon setting foot into the Precinct. He decided that paperwork wasn't quite hell today, but still didn't get much done by the time he looked up at the knock to see Joan holding two cups of coffee and a plastic bag of two sandwich keepers.

"Hey," he waved her in.

"I thought I'd bring lunch if that's okay," she hesitantly entered, closed the door and perched on one of the chairs in front of him.

"Didn't have to, but thanks," he pushed the papers away and took part of the offerings, both munching on part of their sandwiches before he spoke again. "You didn't have to show up with lunch. I'm okay."

She swallowed her mouthful and looked down at the desk surface. "Sherlock wasn't available for lunch. No one was. And… I didn't want to be by myself."

He stared at her blankly for a moment before wincing as he remembered. "You had something to remember, too. Maybe not the same thing I remembered, but something."

It took a moment for her to answer.

"Um, I told the three of you that we were waiting, right? For patients to start flooding in? We waited and no one came. We – we ate lunch and kept the news on and we saw everything. But. But no one came. And – and no one really said what they were thinking, but on some level I think we all knew. Looking back, I don't think anyone wanted to really say it, because that would've made it… real, I guess. You know?" she looked up at him for a moment and then back down. "But, in a way, I'm not sure it really… I'm not sure the magnitude of– of what happened really occurred to any of us. Not all at once, at least. I mean, it took me a week to really…" she trailed off and swallowed hard. "You know that stuff is in the media and you read it, but it just doesn't– doesn't quite hit you until… until you're on the side and they bring up a stretcher and – and there's a small – small bit of- of white in the middle that's- that's no b-bigger than the _palm of my hand_ and – and – and someone next to you just says, 'You know, I've been here almost twenty four hours and that's got to be the biggest part I've seen so far.'"

Reflected horror as fresh as if it were just yesterday tugged him to stand and bundle her to the sofa, no more words needed as she still struggled to comprehend something that he himself had no hope of working through.

Her hair was silky as it brushed the underside of his chin and throat, her slight figure shaking violently in his tightening hold. He didn't want to hurt her, but he also didn't want her to fall apart and think she was alone.

It was a hug that Tommy was surprised he himself needed, but that's what 9/11 did.

It took people that Tommy knew for fact were unshakable and tore them right down as easily as the Towers had been. Someone like Joan Watson would've pulled away by now, accepting more touch than her partner to a point, but she just pressed closer to him and he wasn't sure he could let her pull away even if their own building was on the verge of collapse.

9/11 still did that to people even all these years later. To the most innocent civilian, all the way up to the most seasoned First Responder and Military Veteran.

No one at the heart of it all walked away unscathed.

They _couldn't._

From physical scars and health problems to the darkest shadows that battered an already exhausted mind.

Day in and day out, 9/11just didn't stop for them.

For the rest of the country, 9/11 was just a date that came and went with pomp and circumstance. The reason for their anger and pointing fingers, 'Never Forget' written in stone and in the steel framework of the _New York_.

Maybe in another universe, he too would drag 9/11 up again and again and again to keep in the forefront of everyone's minds a reminder of the evil done on American soil to both American and foreign souls alike.

But this wasn't another universe.

Not for him.

Not for Joan.

Not for every First Responder that witnessed the horror – that lost a member of their _family_ in the name of doing their jobs -, for every person left behind to deal with the aftermath in the form of lost family or friend or even a survivor who got out at the right time.

It just didn't _stop_.

It _couldn't_ stop.

And more than anything else in his life, he wished it could. That they had some way to fix it so they could set Holmes loose like he so desired yesterday.

Fix it so that he wasn't clutching Joan the way she was clutching him as memories were shaken loose at the landing of an eleven story building.

On the one hand, he was faintly glad that it wasn't bigger, but all you really needed to do was add a zero on the end of that number and –

And –

And.

But while the memories were always there, some days were able to more easily push them away for a couple hours.

The stillness in his arms, for example, fought back as he returned to the here and now.

"Hey," he gentled his hold. "We're okay," he rubbed her arm. "We're okay."

There was a choked laugh before she pulled slightly back. "Yeah," she wiped her red eyes. "We're okay. We – we're okay."

They stayed on the couch, not full breaking the hold, for long silent moments.

"I'm sorry," she finally offered.

"No, Joan," he shook his head with a slight smile. "Not right now, you're not. And I'm not, either," he absently found the tissue box and offered it to her. "I get it, right? Between me, Holmes and Bell, I get it. Say sorry for anything else, but not for this. _Never_ for this, got it?" he tilted his head so he could connect their gazes and nodded. "Never for this. You need to get something out, my door is open. Whenever you need it. To talk or have company or just sit like this. I'm not trying to replace Holmes, but he doesn't understand. And Bell, you heard him just yesterday that he was relatively outside of it all. And I know other people you have might not understand, either, so I just want you to know that you're not alone."

Joan held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. "And you're not alone, either," she promised.

"With you around, I know I'm not," he gave her a final squeeze before hauling himself up and retrieving the rest of their neglected lunch. "Come on, eat up. Before Holmes starts tearing the City apart thinking you've been kidnapped again."

"Wouldn't want that," she agreed with a slight wry smile.

If he could change time, he'd keep Joan away from all of it, too, but it was actually pretty damn nice to sit with her and know that someone he trusted actually knew something of what he experienced.

He'd have to make do with that. He was thankful, though, that at least Bell and Holmes had been out of it.

A glance at the time showed it already past a reasonable lunch hour and he still had some things to wrap up – including the case they'd just finished.

He said as much to her and shrugged. "We've got until Friday night to send our reports in, so might want to get that squared away."

"I'll remind Sherlock," she acknowledged, a little more put together than she had been. "We should have it all ready by tomorrow."

He tossed their empty cups as she returned the sandwich keepers to their bag and they walked to his office door. "Thanks for the lunch."

"Thanks for letting me hang out and eat the lunch," she countered as they moved into the room beyond, Detectives and Uniforms busily at work.

Bell was at his desk – obviously having just got back – and glanced at them curiously as they passed.

"Thanks for actually appearing with lunch at all or I would've just skipped it," Tommy couldn't help responding back.

"I would've probably said something a couple years ago about that, but I think now I'll say 'someone had to think about it today.' Thank you for putting up with it," a slight sparkle in her dark eyes told him she was well aware of their little game.

"You're welcome," he reached out and pushed the elevator call button. "And you're welcome for pushing the elevator button, too."

She nodded and they waited for a moment, waiting for the elevator in a bit of silence removed from the activity not actually so far from them, before she looked up at him again with a seriousness that made him straighten in response.

"Thank you," she wasn't playing this time, genuine gratitude reflecting strongly from her eyes. "I didn't get a chance to tell you yesterday, so… Thank you."

… the hell _for_?

But she was gone before he could find the words, swallowed up by the elevator taking a group of others back downstairs.

He didn't realize how long he'd stood there, frowning at the closed doors and trying to figure out why she would be thanking him, until a hand hesitantly touched his elbow and Bell was suddenly in front of him with almost urgent concern.

"What happened?" he almost demanded.

"About what?" Tommy still felt off balance.

"Everything alright with Joan and Holmes?"

"Huh? Yeah," he waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, we're okay. Just lunch." He didn't explain further, but something that seemed like understanding flashed over his face and the concern lessened.

"And you?" he tilted his head, brown eyes watching him almost as intently as Holmes' blue-green eyes were wont to do. "You doin' okay?"

"All things considered, yeah," he breathed out a sigh and turned back toward the bullpen. Bell walked beside him until they stopped at his desk and Tommy asked, "Did something else happen yesterday?"

The smaller man frowned as he thought, then shook his head. "Can't think of anything. Why?"

"She said she didn't have a chance to say 'thank you' to me, but I can't think of a reason why she'd even think to do that."

"You two were, um, were in the collapse, so… maybe she was thankin' you for that," he shrugged.

" _Why_?"

Bell was about to respond until he realized at the last second that he didn't know how to answer. "I don't know," he thoughtfully responded. "Holmes said as much to me on the last case they called me in on, but never did explain why," he scratched the back of his head.

"Glad it's not just me, then," as if that explained anything.

But…

Maybe it did.

He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Hey," he raised a finger.

"Hm?" he glanced back at him.

"They're part of this department, right?"

" 'Course they are," he straightened as his features tightened. "Why? Someone say somethin'?"

"No," he glanced around, unsettled at his train of thought. "No, just… you think _they_ know that?"

"Should," Bell didn't seem convinced that it wasn't influenced from the outside as he looked suspiciously around at those nearby. "They're our Consultants, right?"

"Right," he suddenly realized he was being silly.

Joan and Holmes worked with them and Tommy, Bell and a growing number of others knew it.

Hell, every head of every Department within the Seven Boroughs knew it and woe betide _any_ of them who didn't return either one in the state they were loaned in.

Everyone knew that Holmes and Watson belonged to _his_ unit, were _his_ people, and they would be among his own until they either moved and settled in other countries or until they died. And even then, once a member of Tommy Gregson's own, _always_ a member of Tommy Gregson's own.

"Once part of this unit, always part of this unit," Bell unknowingly echoed his sentiment. "Consultant, Captain, Detective. Maybe Uniform, too," he added as an afterthought, but not all Uniforms stayed in one place their whole careers. Some didn't want to or couldn't stay for whatever reason.

"Yeah. Sorry," he rubbed his eyes. "Just…"

Joan and Holmes were his Consultants – his and Bell's – and they didn't have to thank them like… like _civilians_. They would leap in front of any of the others, no thanks required.

Bell had done just that some years back.

Like Tommy would've done for the three of them had he been there.

Because that's what they did for each other – for people considered part of their team. The team that either included family or became it.

Frankly, Tommy – for one – had no distinction between them.

Maybe that's why Joan thought she had to thank him for keeping her safe, Tommy concluded to himself as Bell nodded in wordless understanding and turned his attention to his phone.

Her and Holmes, both.

They didn't get it, yet.

That was it, he decided as he returned to his office. Not because they didn't think themselves part of the department, they did – but just a minor, outlying part.

Little more than Civilians, which – truth be told – they were, but they were _his_ Civilians and were able to do what he, Bell and others couldn't.

So maybe they weren't quite Civilians, but they were also not quite – fully – under his protection like he would prefer.

They were still his people and maybe they didn't quite know that yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Standing behind of his desk, he thoughtfully considered the sofa he and Joan had just vacated.

As much as he hated to say it, something like 9/11 tore people down and – possibly at the same time – entwined people together for the better.

Bonds were shattered, but – like today had just demonstrated – they were also formed. Or they allowed for a deeper understanding of another, of a family member or a friend…

Even a complete stranger.

That thought made him turn a considering look at the smallest drawer on the side of his desk.

He used to keep a simple drawstring pouch in the front corner of that small drawer, then Holmes more or less crashed into his life and some of the things he rattled on about actually started to stick.

In place of the drawstring pouch, there was a small wooden box at the back.

The top of the wooden box had a sticker of the NYPD shield on it, which meant just about anything to other eyes and would deter a majority who would dare snoop. If curiosity really burned, a peek inside usually showed something official or formal and the box was quickly discarded.

And if that worked on Holmes, then he was confident it was safe.

On the upper left corner of the velvet inside, there was a button that pushed inside the box rim so that the inside could be lifted out and he'd never really liked all the… fuss that was attached to being Captain, but it definitely provided cover as the reason he kept taking the velvet part out. His cufflinks couldn't be taken out when the velvet top was in, yes, but no one really thought to look beyond that to the drawstring pouch he just as often visited as it hid underneath.

Sometimes, when something happened that threatened to bring back with a vengeance the memories of 9/11 – and sometimes not even as big as an 11 story building -, just looking at the pouch was enough to calm shaking hands. But when that didn't work, like it did today, the pouch was opened and Tommy eased out a necklace that seemed more suited to a kid than a grown man.

The black string was attached to a pendant that was small, red and of a cheap sort of metal that he held gently in his fingers.

He remembered exactly when and where he got it and who gave it to him.

That was quite possibly the only good thing that came out of 9/11.

* * 2001 * *

He'd been at the Pile for almost a full twenty four hours before catching sight of the kid that couldn't have been much older than 25 if that.

She was attached to one of the medical teams that moseyed their way down to help the volunteers who were overcome by – they all later learned toxic – dust and vapors coming from deep within that twisted pile that he'd somehow got away from barely 40 hours before.

Sometimes, he would just stand back and shake his head in pure admiration for the Firefighters that had lost friends and neighbors and _brothers_ and were still pulling hours- long shifts late into the night. Them, though, were trained for this kind of rescue.

Well, not _this_ kind of rescue, specifically, but their training came in damn handy.

But the young Medical kid.

He came in for some eye wash and she eagerly dragged him over to an out of the way corner so she could push him into a chair to better compensate for the height difference. "Thanks, Doc," he grunted before making his way out of the area for a short break.

He'd circled back around five hours later and she wasn't there.

About five hours after that, he spied her again as he stood near the Honor Guard. The small fleet of ambulances awaited their motorcycle escort. He'd talked to a few of the cops before their last run and shook their hands because he couldn't _not_ do it.

Even as a Detective, he'd felt a sense of protectiveness toward them as they came back again and again and again, their growing distress only hinted at by the grip they desperately clung to on their professionalism.

But he couldn't do it, couldn't do this for them, and he knew it.

The least he could do, however, was acknowledge the task, the pressure on their shoulders, and to let them know that he recognized their duty and was thankful to them for taking it on.

He was leaning against a wall near the waiting fleet and their precious flag draped cargo when the medical kid suddenly appeared next to him.

"I'm not quite the doctor you think I am, yet," she told him.

It took him a moment to place her and he gave a careless shrug. "Kid," he sighed. "I'm not about to get into a fight with you about details today of all days."

"No, I know that," she shook her head with a frown. "Just, for future reference."

"Future reference, then," he shrugged, because he didn't really care.

The motorcycles arrived and they watched them leave in silence.

"It's quiet," she softly commented when they were gone.

"It is," he nodded.

Complete silence.

Like a tomb.

She probably said something else, but he didn't register as he watched the now empty street in front of him. He simply turned and she was gone, just as silent as the breeze.

Like maybe a ghost or a figment of his mind that only he could interact with.

Luckily, though – perhaps unluckily, in a way -, the kid was a real flesh and blood person who he ran into again later that night.

There was a sandwich place down the street that was open for business and he ducked in before the crowds found it, spying the kid at a corner table with a guy who could be her boyfriend.

She caught sight of him before he could turn away and waved him over. "Sit with us," she beckoned at his hesitation.

He eventually shrugged and plopped down at the table with them, someone coming to take his order almost as soon as he settled.

It was almost quiet enough to think and he didn't particularly want to do so, but wasn't sure what else he could do.

"So, you're a cop, right?" the guy smiled tiredly. "Do you want gratitude or condolence?"

Honestly?

"I just want this entire nightmare over with."

"Truer words, my friend. Truer words."

The kid had to use the bathroom and her friend visibly slumped as shadows rolled across his face. He'd obviously been putting on an act for her sake and took the respite with a soul deep sigh.

"She's a great friend," he told him, eyes obscured by hair that fell into them. "I mean, I've really only known her for, like, eight hours, but I can tell she's a great friend. Like sunshine that you feel. And it's all… sunny in here," he tapped at his chest. "But the sunshine out there isn't like that," he waved out the dark windows. "I mean, I can feel it, you know, on my body, but it just doesn't… doesn't touch your soul. And you can stand out in it all day and only feel cold. But she's not like that. I don't know if I've ever felt that cold before," he frowned. "I, uh, know someone who works on Windows on the World. Used to, now, I guess. My roommate. Thought she'd forgotten something and came down to take it to her. I'm like that, you know. The damndest thing? he smiled ironically with bright eyes. "She was still at our place, dead to the world. And I spent just about twenty four hours thinking…" he swallowed. "You can imagine how horrified she was when I finally got back. We're both sleeping on the floor of the living room area. Well, I use 'sleep' loosely. I actually can't. Which is funny, because I can usually sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. Why am I down here?" he suddenly asked. "I mean, I watched it all in real time as I stood… actually not that far from here. Why did I come back?" he asked seriously.

Tommy just smiled humorlessly back. "You know, I'm still asking myself that same question."

"Well, yeah, but you're a cop. You're supposed to be here."

He said that like Tommy hadn't actually almost died.

Because he had. Almost.

Somehow, he'd made it.

And he kept coming back.

Kept replaying all of it as he sifted and watched stretchers leave with wrapped remains of what used to be people.

Kept replaying all of it as he listened to people lie to themselves and each other, but they had to lie because the truth was shattering on top of everything else.

He just couldn't stop.

"Anyway," the guy waved a hand. "I don't know when I'll stop coming because my job is actually trying to accommodate a few busloads of displaced wait staff and the bosses pretty much told me to take a vacation. As you can see, I'm probably a glutton for punishment."

Tommy's sandwich came up and he tore into it without necessarily tasting it, but it was big and warm and the guy was right when he said that you could toil in the sun as long as you wanted and never feel warm. Because that's exactly what he was feeling now as the adrenalin waned for the time being.

Cold.

A deep cold wrapped around him that he couldn't shake.

"John! My heart!" the other's joyful declaration had him looking up to see the kid making her way back from the bathroom. "My sunshine banishing the icy cold of shadow. Allow me to bask - "

"Stop making everything sound like you're proposing," the kid – John? – rolled her eyes as she settled back in her chair.

"And if I wasn't as straight as a rainbow, I'd marry you in a heartbeat."

"We've only known each other since this morning."

"That's true love, John," he sagely advised, patting her hand as he cleared their side of the table like the waiter he was. "There in a flash."

The guy seemed completely serious, too, but – for some reason – something else caught his attention and he drained half his water before giving them a bemused look. " 'John'?"

"Oh," she waved a hand. "I think I looked up at the wrong time. A firefighter mistook my attention and I am now apparently answering to 'John'. It's not bad or anything, but I didn't actually come down here looking for a nickname."

"So, 'John' isn't your name?"

"No. It's actually –"

"John!"

Her head thunked on the table as a firefighter waved at her enthusiastically as he passed, her friend happily waving back.

Tommy looked at the dubbed 'John' as she let her head tap the table again and felt a small smile on his face. For some reason, that smile grew and he was chuckling as if that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen.

Then it suddenly _was_ and he was laughing harder than he remembered ever laughing before, probably even before Tuesday.

He laughed long and hard and it felt _good_.

He finally managed to get a hold of himself, wiping his eyes and reveling in the warmth of that unexpected burst of light, and was almost set off again as he realized the other two had started laughing with him.

The laughter did eventually drift off and the three sat there, Tommy feeling almost drunk as he finished off his food.

"Seemed like that was needed," their waitress stood a few feet from them with a wide smile across her face, tears in her brown eyes.

"And just when I thought I forgot what laughter sounded like," an older gentleman looked about ready to cry at the table next to them.

"I thought I forgot what laughter _felt_ like," a different firefighter, this one older than the first, grinned as he stretched.

Tommy realized that the laughter he'd heard had been too surrounding to have just come from the two in front of him.

"Forget laughter," someone else added. "I forgot what a _smile_ was!"

The atmosphere was drastically lighter as the waitress took their table things and Tommy couldn't help watching John with an inexplicable fondness, a look at the third revealing a knowing smile he couldn't find the heart to argue with.

After that, something changed.

The Medical kid was no longer just a face or a pair of eyes, anymore. She was John.

Sometimes with her waiter friend, other times set up with the other Medical personnel.

He was constantly searching for her every time he managed to switch off for a few hours.

She was seemingly always waiting for him to track her down, the Waiter running across them a number of times.

"I know, right?" the Waiter smiled widely at him as they waited for her to come back from the bathroom. "She's like the worst drug. You're always waiting and craving that next hit. Not that I actually do drugs," he hastily assured. "It's – I just… know people."

But Tommy just couldn't argue with that.

It was probably some kind of dependence, but desperate times called for desperate measures in order to get through and he couldn't find it in himself to resist any longer than he had to.

There was just something about her that drew him, not in a romantic way – obviously, since he was still married and all -, but something nonetheless.

And it was delicious, a respite from what was going on around them. From the inner turmoil that wanted to bubble over, but he could hold off on that as long as he focused on her.

As hours and days passed, the Pile tested them all to their limits and, in many cases, past that.

He'd watched the sparkle fade the longer a person worked, hope not far behind but holding tenaciously on with everything it had.

Hope for what, he couldn't say.

So, it was probably inevitable that he went looking for John – only to find her checked out as the horrifying realization began to sink in.

He took it upon himself to take care of her the way she'd taken care of him and they both found themselves across the Brooklyn Bridge, John following docilely at his side as their hands linked them together.

He found a quiet spot for them to sit and she wordlessly curled into him as he made soothing noises.

As he sat there, keeping watch and deliberately not thinking of what was behind them across the river, he listened to her and held a little tighter and let her presence comfort him in a similar way to how she usually did. This time, though, it wasn't about not thinking about the Pile or what they kept pulling out of it.

It wasn't about the light that filled his chest when he saw that she was okay and waiting for whatever he wanted to do next.

It wasn't about the Aftermath.

This time, it was about loss.

The loss of stability and innocence, something that even the most seasoned Detective/Firefighter/Paramedic had until something like Tuesday happened and suddenly there was a void where there wasn't before.

There had been the loss of more than lives, something that would only really hit him when the last piece of steel was carried out under a flag and the Twin Towers were no longer there – like it had hit poor John like a two-by-four to the face.

The Towers had always been there.

Until they weren't.

220 stories and thousands of lives.

Gone.

Just like that.

He curled around her as her shaking grew violent and hoped he was holding her together in some manner similar to how she seemed to effortlessly do the same with him. If he could return the favor, then they would be on a more even keel.

A united front against the aftermath of something bigger than the both of them could ever imagine.

Like partners.

Partners were supposed to watch each other's back, right? He'd had a number of good ones over the years, his current partner still probably on the other side of the country for that serial killer task force before 9/11. He wanted his partner to stay there so there would be at least one cop he didn't have to worry about.

John could be the placeholder for a little while. She wouldn't mind.

Especially with the grip she had on him, like she was trying to keep her head up and out of the water but just wasn't able to do it.

"We're okay," he told her, rocking them from side to side. "Let yourself go. I got you."

The noises were really almost as heartbreaking as experiencing the double collapse firsthand, her grief so sharp that he couldn't help the tears in his eyes. Had it really been less than a month ago that they had simply needed to take a look over the river to see the two Towers against the sky?

A look over now would reveal a dark City, stars seemingly gathered in one place as the pile of ruined buildings – dreams, families, futures, things that weren't even describable yet and probably never would be – sat in the center.

"We're okay," he dragged his thoughts back to the one who needed his attention, an undefinable panic tightening his grip as he reminded the both of them, "We're okay. We're okay. We're alive. We're together. We're okay."

He blanked his thoughts as he chanted and it was eventually dawn by the time he could breathe again.

They stopped in the middle of the bridge on their way back and stared at the space left behind.

John's Waiter friend was almost handfeeding them sandwiches by the time Tommy managed to get his thoughts back together, completely uncertain of how he even managed to find them in the first place.

"Never you mind," he scowled. "Now, open up. I will not hesitate to use the 'plane' noises, 9/11 or no 9/11."

It wasn't too long after that – the next day, in fact – when John had taken his arm and pulled him aside with a determined glint in her eyes.

"I know this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous," she started off with, her fist clenched around something attached to a black string, "but I had a thought yesterday and I dug this out of my stuff at my place." She opened her palm and showed him the small pendant that would become the most precious thing in his possession. "It means, um, 'team' and… My brother got me this necklace and a bracelet, so it's a set. And… and I thought. Well, that we were a sort of team the other night, you know? And you can keep it to remember me, well, remember that you have a friend somewhere that has the other part of the set. So that you're not alone. Or… something like that," she ducked her head.

Tommy smiled fondly at her and liked the idea the more he thought of it. "Can you put it on?" he requested.

She blinked up at him in surprise for a long moment before lighting up. "Alright," she agreed, taking hold of the pendant like one would a medal.

He bowed his head as solemnly as he would in accepting an actual medal and looked down at it once it was settled, straightening and running a light finger over it. She was watching it, too, and smiled slightly.

"So, now we're a team," she told him.

It was pretty similar to what had gone through his own thoughts that night, so maybe they were more alike than they both had thought.

Who really knew anymore.

"I'll take good care of it," he promised.

"That's alright. I trust you to keep it safe. Well, it's yours to do with what you want."

She was obviously thinking exactly what she expected him to do with it, but just thinking of tossing it didn't sit right with him. Maybe she would think it long gone in some landfill by year's end, but he wasn't going to let it leave his sight. It would be small enough to fit in a corner of a drawer in his desk and it would remind him that there were people like John and her waiter friend out there.

That there were good people still in the world and it was up to him to help keep them safe.

But let her think what she wanted.

He would never convince her, especially if they never saw each other again after this.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely.

She stared at him for a long moment and blinked. "That… means a lot coming from you," she seemed surprised.

"Because I'm a cop?"

"Part of it…?" she frowned, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "I… it's hard to explain. But that, too, of course. And you're welcome."

When he got back on shift, he tucked the pendant in his shirt and the damndest thing happened.

While he doubted anything could make any of this bearable, he found that thinking of the pendant – what it represented – as it was pressed into his skin actually… helped.

Like he really wasn't going through this alone.

On some level, he knew he wasn't actually alone, but…

It helped.

And hell if he knew how.

He wouldn't say that he felt better as he left to find John hours later, but he did feel a little more… solid? Reinforced, perhaps.

When he did find her and the waiter, she was fluttering almost helplessly around a knot of First Responders as many sat with blank stares.

The waiter stood almost just as helpless nearby and saw him.

"What happened?" Tommy came up to him with a frown.

"Somebody found a badge," he answered almost numbly. "Somebody found a badge."

There was no response he could make.

Eventually, both had to pull John away as others arrived to take care of the group.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing," she finally spoke as they sat on benches overlooking the Hudson River. "I'm no use to people if their… not even in one piece. What am I doing here?"

"Because you're a Medical volunteer and you're supposed to be here?" the waiter shrugged.

"But there's nothing for me to do! I came down here expecting to be of help to people, but I'm honestly beginning to realize that there is a need for help here. I'm just not the one to give it to them."

Tommy thought about that for a long time.

That's all they ever wanted to do, really. Help people.

It was their job.

John and countless other Medical personnel had expected to do their job when they arrived. Yeah, there were injuries – of course, there were injuries -, but nothing they really needed to worry about. No life or death injuries.

A lot of them would no doubt leave with a sense of very little accomplishment, believing that they didn't do a lick of difference to anyone.

Tommy, though, didn't believe that.

He saw nurses trying to coax at least a smile out of firefighters who grew more and more solemn with every name added to the ever growing list.

He saw doctors awkwardly trying to be comforting, something many of them weren't sure how to do simply for the fact that the nurses were more disposed to comfort.

Then there was John, who probably didn't even realize that there was at _least_ one person she was helping.

It may not have been the large scale help she'd anticipated providing, but it still counted. She was trying to help, like the group of First Responders from earlier, and maybe Tommy was a little biased when he looked at her as she tried getting cops and firefighters to at least smile for a moment. A mostly fruitless endeavor, but she tried.

As far as Tommy was concerned, she'd been such a big help to him. The odds were incredible that he met her, someone who did more help than could be expressed, and there were times he couldn't help entertain the thought that maybe St. Michael had sent her so she could meet him.

But that was _ridiculous_.

… wasn't it?

There were Patron Saint medals and pendants being handed out by the box full and he'd already had quite the collection of St. Michael medallions already, more no doubt on the way before all was said and done.

It wasn't difficult to find one from the shoebox and he mad absolutely certain to head over to find John before anything could happen to it.

"Hey," he managed to catch her before they both went on shift. "Have a minute?"

"Hey," she readily joined him in a corner. "I was hoping to get a hold of you before I forget to tell you. I'm being rotated out in a couple days."

Something slightly relaxed at that as he nodded. "I'm not going to be far behind. Just got word early this morning."

"Oh," she relaxed slightly, too, possibly having been worried about him. "Good. Um, was that all?"

"No," he knew it was the right thing to do as he offered his fisted hand. "I wanted you to have this."

She didn't seem certain as she glanced between his hand and his face, but she hesitantly offered her palm so he could drop it. Once she got a good look at what she'd been given, she automatically tried to give it back. "I can't take this!" she protested, eyes wide. "I'm not a cop!"

It was kind of embarrassing and he was self-conscious about having to explain his real thoughts, so he shrugged. "Well, maybe one day you'll hang up your stethoscope and decide to become a cop."

"That'll never happen," she proclaimed, dark eyes narrowed in confidence and challenging him to make an argument.

They thought 9/11 would never happen, either.

"You never know," Tommy sagely advised. "Stranger things have happened."

"Well, it's not going to."

"A person can dream. You'd probably make a pretty good Detective."

"A person can get back to work. You're probably holding up progress."

He quirked a smile in response, shrugged again and sketched a slight salute before ambling off and getting back to work.

The waiter dropped his own news later that day and it was a bit of an emotional good-bye as they said their farewells.

"Don't cry, John," he squeezed her tight in response to her grip, tears rolling down his face. "We'll be together again. We're meant to be together."

"Stop making everything sound like a proposal," her voice shook slightly as tears rolled down her own cheeks.

"If he wasn't as straight as a rainbow," Tommy smiled slightly as he stood nearby.

"Exactly!" he choked a laugh. "Be good, you two. I'll be thinking of you lots and lots."

He and John stayed wrapped up in each other for long moments before watery eyes locked on Tommy, who held out a hand and accepted the tight hug.

"Take care, kid," he gave him a pat on the back.

"And you, Detective," he pulled back with a wink. "I'll be looking to meet you again in this life one day, so think of that before jumping in front of something you should probably be running away from."

"I'll take that under advisement."

Tommy's vision misted a bit as John and the waiter hugged one final time and he and John watched him walk away.

After that, it seemed like seconds flew by before he was face to face with John for the final time.

"Well," she wiped her eyes with a choked laugh. "I wish I could say I had fun, but."

"Under other circumstances," he nodded. "But it was an honor and a pleasure."

"I should be saying that," she initiated a tight, long hug that he tucked away in his memory for the future. "But it was definitely an honor and a pleasure."

"Take care, John," he spoke into her ear.

She hugged him tight before stepping back with a sigh. "I guess I never did thank you for this, did I?" she opened her palm, the St. Michael's medal glinting in the sunlight.

"You're more than welcome," he told her.

She watched him for a long moment and held it out. "Put it on?"

"Of course," he took it and watched her bow slightly, as if accepting an actual medal, before gently placing it around her neck. "There," she straightened and looked at it hanging against her chest, running a light finger over it. "Looks good."

She was silent for a long moment before looking up and connecting their gazes. "Thank you," she said simply, something swimming in her dark eyes that he couldn't name.

He remembered what she'd said about it being different coming from him when she gave him the red necklace and finally understood what she'd meant, because out of all the times he'd heard those same two words from so many people…

Those two words coming from her made him swallow around a lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat. He couldn't find words to make it around the lump, so he smiled tightly and pulled her in again with a stuttered sigh. "Be good, John," he rasped.

They stayed like that for a bit longer before they had to separate.

They watched each other in silence before both nodding at the other. Then she turned and walked away, glancing back once with a smile before disappearing from sight.

* * 2017 * *

He never saw her again.

Almost two years later, he would cross paths for the first time with Sherlock Holmes.

Three years after that, Marcus Bell would come to his attention.

They were the only other two who gave him even the slightest feeling of sunshine since he'd first felt it in a sandwich shop at the edge of Hell.

Sometimes, he wondered whatever became of John.

If she was still a doctor or if she'd moved on.

If she was happy.

Sometimes, he thought about asking Holmes and Watson to look into it, because they could find her with what little he could give them. They wouldn't stop looking until they found her or he made them stop.

Sometimes, he wondered if she wanted him to find her.

Maybe it was for the best if he left her to her life.

But he would sit in his office with the necklace pendant gripped in his palm, like he was now, and wonder.

That night, the pendant still wound around his wrist, he thought of her again as he fell asleep. This time, though, instead of creaking metal, his sleep was underscored by the light of sunshine and a strange three toned whisper that he could barely make out.

' **We're okay** ,' it whistled and streamed over him as he listened. ' **We're okay. We're okay**. **_We're okay_**.'

* * *

End Part One

* * *

** Next Chapter Peek:

 _'Brownstone. NOW'_


	2. Marcus

AN: From this point, you will read something that you may take exception to. I'm expecting that, especially in the last two chapters. Just... remember to keep an open mind, alright?

Reminder: There are triggers in this story. Maybe toward the end of this chapter, but I didn't realize until I actually started typing it all that certain things might come up.

The story is all finished. It's all written out. It should all be up by Wednesday.

* * *

Part Two: Marcus

* * *

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're** ** _okay._**

The words echoed with every heartbeat as he breathed.

A reminder, an anchor.

 **We're okay.**

He'd been unable to get to the Towers because he'd constantly been sent elsewhere to fill in for others as they scrambled to fill other spaces while everyone else raced for the stricken buildings.

But he'd found himself a little closer than most as he helped at the docks in New Jersey.

He'd seen minor injuries and massive numbers coming off boats and ferries in shock, tears and just bafflement at the surreal scenes they'd barely escaped from. He'd seen the clouds racing all over Lower Manhattan and then people started coming off covered in dust, debris, tears running down their faces as they clung to others in helpless panic.

And the _stories_ …

All of this was going on and he was stuck with babysitting?

But he did it, much as he itched to abandon his post, head over there and do something.

He stayed and did his job and then did whatever he was supposed to do in the aftermath.

He'd been young, a kid really, and – despite the empty chairs, despite the funerals – a part of him had envied those who got to be there.

Who got to, in some way, participate.

And he'd hated it. Kind of resented it, to some degree, but he'd decided then and there that he was going to make Detective and then he would have to be sent to the action.

It hadn't mattered that the Shield carried its own responsibilities and its own pressures and its own brand of action.

If only to have a taste of 9/11, however small and diluted it was, so be it.

And you know what? That's exactly what he got, one week ago today.

You know that cockamamie question about writing to your past self that you would do for easy credit? If he honestly could write to his 9/11 self, he would be the first to dissuade the kid, tell him to be grateful that he wasn't anywhere near the events that day because he'd gotten just a small taste of it and how it must have felt.

It was the single most fucking terrifying thing he'd ever experienced in his _life_.

He'd thought he could take it, whenever it came, because he'd solved the most gruesome murders no one should have had to bear witness to. He'd heard the stories that came out of Ground Zero, stories that eventually became just another horror story in his line of work.

Body parts, falling bodies, you know. Just another day.

Despite all the stories, however, everything he'd seen and done in the years since, nothing had prepared him to actually find himself staring at what used to be a building with a silent radio in his hand.

That… that changed things.

Because if he'd thought he really could handle the reality, the nightmares _trounced_ that.

Yeah, he'd had nightmares before – all part and parcel of the Shield -, but nothing like this.

In the week since, in every combination, he and at least one other would be helpless and too far away and _not enough_ to be able to reach the other two.

He and Gregson would be waiting for Holmes and Joan to land so they could sent along information, but the flight would crash in a field.

He and Joan would be holding down the fort while Gregson and Holmes went to some kind of meeting or conference or interview and end up wildly off course in DC.

Sometimes, he would be alone and sometimes he wouldn't, but the most terrifying scenario of them all was –

 _He choked on the thick dust that blanketed everything in sight._

 _The darkness all around him was completely, horribly, silent as it hid things he'd never imagined._

 _A hand was gripped tightly around his, trying to pull him in the right direction now that the cloud(s) had rolled through._

 _His other hand was gripping a radio._

 _'Captain! Come in!'_

 _'Joan! Do you read?'_

 _'This is Marcus and Sherlock! Where is your location?'_

 _'Tommy! Joan! Please respond!'_

 ** _'Please respond!'_**

He didn't go back to sleep after that.

He couldn't.

No way in hell.

Because all he could think about was that radio.

The one that _never answered back_.

How is it that – from all the stories he'd listened to, stories about what was seen and smelled and witnessed, from civilian to First Responder – no one had ever warned him about the most horrific silence of all?

And knowing that two of _his best friends_ were on the other side of that silence when every other radio was blowing up…

What the hell kind of person was he, thinkin' he'd be able to handle that – handle having his heart torn out like that – and resenting the fact that he wasn't witness to any of that for himself?

Because no one could handle that.

The loss of someone he thought would always be there, someone taken for granted, someone who seemed larger than life and in-fucking- vincible.

The radio silence that went on and on and _on_.

He'd tasted that.

A miniscule taste, diluted by time and history.

If he was still reeling from that, no way in hell could he have taken the Actual Event itself.

And that was after knowing what happened.

The ones who were actually there had no idea of what would befall them or the long reaching effects that were still rippling through a country's psyche all this time on.

For the first time since 9/11, he wished he hadn't been anywhere near it.

Maybe that would make it better, would've made him better able to… to deal with the bombing's repercussions.

Maybe. Maybe not.

What if.

Hindsight was _always_ 20/20.

A beeping noise had him almost jumping through several layers of ceiling before he managed to get himself enough together to recognize the alarm he'd set on his phone.

A glance at the time showed almost an hour before the dinner reservation Chantal had made for their one year anniversary. The night had been anticipated for weeks and he wanted to spend time with her, he really did.

Despite that, he still had the panicked urge to stop by the Brownstone to see if they needed back-up or an ear or a sounding board or even a damn mock victim for one of those stupid mock crime scenes that almost gave him a heart attack the first time.

Maybe even call the Captain to see if there was anything that needed doing.

But he had to tamp down that knee jerk reaction to every thought because it was the First Year Anniversary and that had to take some kind of priority, right?

He wasn't dating Holmes, Gregson or Joan – didn't plan to -, so he had to stop worrying about them.

9/11.

It happened.

It happened and the Freedom Tower took the Twins' place.

That was the knowledge he clung to as he finished getting ready.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 ** _We're okay._**

The mantra stuck with him as he left his apartment, got in his car and made his way to their pre-arranged location.

Chantal was gorgeous as always, even when having left the office only minutes before, but his attention didn't stick to her as easily as it usually did.

His cell and pager were both on vibrate and high volume in case he had to run off and he absently kept touching them as he presented a single specimen of her favorite flower. He might actually have been paying attention last month when Holmes had been snooping around on his own case and their paths had crossed as Marcus and Chantal had been out and about.

He still wasn't sure how they ended up being philosophical, but there'd been something that stuck about flowers and fleeting memories and Chantal had certainly remembered, too, if the soft smile was anything to go by.

"It's beautiful," she pressed a light kiss to his cheek as they linked arms, Marcus hefting her work bag as they turned toward the restaurant. "Funny how inspiration comes from the most strangest places."

Marcus simply nodded and they slowly made their way to the restaurant, her chatting about her day and him passively listening while glancing around with alert senses.

Having a plane fall out of the sky and into a building wasn't actually off the table and he knew that the Captain would probably be among the first on the scene since the older man didn't seem all that inclined to sleep in much the same fashion as he did. Come to think of it, Gregson was probably still at the office, too.

And it didn't matter where Joan and Holmes were, because they would probably drop everything to double-time it to the place where they were most needed. Joan would, anyway. Holmes would know his partner and want to tag along to try to keep her from harm in that sometimes overbearing way he had.

Their arrival to their reserved table dragged him back to the present and he managed to keep his attention there as they ordered drinks and food.

Three courses, that's what they agreed, so three courses they would have and it was when they were waiting for their appetizers that he realized Chantal had quieted.

He looked across the table at her and found her looking thoughtfully back. "Somethin' wrong?"

"You don't want to be here, do you?" she asked simply.

No, he kind of didn't, but that wasn't fair to her.

"Of course, I do," he smiled, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I was looking forward to this."

And he honestly had, too, until last week.

Before –

 _"Captain?"_

"I think I was, too," concern tinged her features, "until last week."

"What?" he straightened. "What happened last week?"

"Marcus, is everything alright?" she watched him with warmly concerned chocolate eyes. "You were really distracted at lunch and, you know, I thought it was the job and figured you just needed to work it out yourself and you would be fine. Looking at you now, though, I'm not too sure. No, listen," she raised a finger at his opened mouth. "You went off to work after the lunch before last, remember? And you were… you were the confident junior Detective I started dating. But then, last lunch, you were distracted and actually kind of rattled and I thought you just got off a serial case - which I totally get – and you sounded fine when I talked to you since.

"But tonight… I think that case rattled you more than I thought. You're just so tense and kind of… Kind of lost, I guess. And – and I'm not gonna lie, Baby – I don't like seeing you like this. Now, I understand that it's still too… early for you to really trust me, but you don't even have to talk to me, specifically. I think… I think you need to get something out, but no pressure," she firmly reassured. "Just… I don't know. Maybe you don't need to say much, but I think you need to say something to… to settle at least a little bit. Maybe just talk a little about the case? If you want."

Marcus let his back hit the backrest as he stared at the table surface.

He was aware of Chantal watching him, both of them silent as the appetizers were laid down in front of them.

It was a long moment before she offered, "Or I could call Joan, if that would help. I'm sure she could at least hint, if I asked her to."

 _"Joan! Joan, it's Marcus, do you read?"_

 _Panic rose the longer they tried until a hand suddenly gripped his as it held the radio, turning it elsewhere and a British accent sharply spoke into the device. There was this strange buzzing noise in his ears._

 _"Watson, do you copy? Respond!"_

 _"Joan, it's Marcus and Sherlock," he couldn't get air into his lungs as he gasped with a British echo, " **Please respond.** "_

"It wasn't a serial," the words seemed to appear of their own accord. "But… I think I wish it was."

He felt himself breathe as he stared at the table without seeing it, the case coming back to him in crystal clear detail as if he wasn't allowed to ever forget.

Not that he could.

"We were approached by a building owner, who was getting threats. Threats against one of his properties, which are scattered all over the City. We couldn't figure out which property, so we got Holmes and Watson to come in to help. We had four days, but we also had high rise buildings in danger of damage either way. Intentional or collateral. We had to actually find the perp behind the threats and that in itself was a job, considering the amount of people who wanted to intimidate him for one reason or another."

It had been Holmes who accompanied him as they talked to a few witnesses.

Joan had been running down a few clues and leads as the Captain dealt with things like red tape.

One of the theories tossed around was that it had all been some kind of hoax to make some kind of trouble, so they went to talk to the family who owned the properties in question.

Marcus himself hadn't gotten anything from the family; the property owner was a clean by-the-book kind of guy, wife sometimes had migraines and the adopted nephew that had been orphaned again was a quiet kid who was shy but no trouble.

In the days leading up to the bombing, "We had nothin'. No clues, no leads, no idea of the property bein' targeted or if it was all of them. Three days weren't enough time, but we started clearing some of the properties and crossin' them off. We started thinkin' about clearin' the surrounding blocks, but the problem was that we still didn't know what property to focus on. Or why, but it was near the second day – near midnight – that another letter revealed that there was probably some explosives involved."

Naturally, that made the effort that much more urgent to find and evacuate the property in addition to any surrounding areas.

It definitely put pressure on him, Joan and Holmes to find the guy.

The very last day, it was Joan who figured out which building was the target and Gregson shifted the entire operation to the place she directed them to as he also began calling for a mass evacuation of the immediate area.

Meanwhile, Marcus went with Holmes, who'd finally figured out the guy behind the threats.

"And it was the damndest thing," he shook his head. "Guy had a clean record, no one hated him more than usual, but turns out the guy's a homophobe, right? Wanted to teach the owner a lesson about supportin' his nephew's 'unusual' ways."

"That poor kid," Chantal shook her head with sympathy. "He must've felt horrible about all this."

"Yeah. I'm sure the kid would be feeling even worse if he actually _was_ gay."

And wasn't that the kicker?

It was damn near hysterical now that the immediate danger was over, but it hadn't been the least bit amusing at the time.

"You're _joking_ ," her eyes widened in disbelief. "All of that and the kid wasn't even gay?"

"Not even. Turns out, he's sweet on a girl in his neighborhood, who goes to a private school. Both of them were still dancin' around each other last I heard, but the family – livin' and deceased – were all straight."

"I don't believe this. Okay," she rubbed her temples. "If he wasn't gay, then how in the world did that idea come about?"

"I think because the poor kid 'acted more like a sissy than a real man' were the exact words."

"Typical," she scowled down at her drink. "Have a solid idea about what something is and incorrectly label those who don't cut it."

"The property owner and his family are cool with bein' gay, but none of them actually are. Some guys are more desirable to women _because_ they act like a 'sissy', whatever that means."

"I'm not sure what 'sissy' behavior would include, but you're the right mix," she assured with a warm smile. "But that's not the end of the story, is it?"

"Holmes confirmed that there most certainly were explosives."

 _While Marcus couldn't claim to by any kind of explosives expert, he knew what a lab looked like and the right materials scattered all around._

 _"Good thing Joan was right," Marcus shook his head as he hung up the phone. "They just got done evacuating the building the explosives are in. They're almost done evacuating a one block radius around the place and in the middle of evacuating another."_

 _Holmes seemed to be listening with half an ear as he moved around the space, sharp eyes tracking everything the way only he could._

 _"How many explosives we lookin' at here?" Marcus did his own sweep._

 _"One does not quite require a vast quantity to bring something down," he absently answered. "Certainly not an eleven story building."_

 _He suddenly stilled in a way Marcus hated to see._

 _"What?" he stiffened in response, ready to spring into action._

 _"Not a vast quantity," he said almost to himself, "but certainly enough to compromise its infrastructure. Not just centralized points, but scattered all over. Marcus," he whirled around with wide eyes. "Alert the Bomb Unit to get out of the building. Everyone needs to be out. The building is coming down and everyone needs to be clear of it when it does."_

 _"What about the timer?" he immediately followed as the taller man turned to the door. "Stop the timer -"_

 _"Not a centralized location!" Holmes shouted as they picked up the pace. "Disabling the timer will do just that, disable the timer! It will not stop what's already been triggered."_

 _"You mean the timer's a fake?" he threw himself into his car and barely waited for Holmes to shut the door before they were tearing down the street with lights on high, a couple cruisers following with their own lights and sirens to help clear the way._

 _"Not quite a fake, but it's not attached to any amount of explosives that will do a bloody lick of good. If it's attached to anything, it'll be a fuse that's already been lit. It's possibly a chain reaction after that."_

 _Marcus was already on the radio, telling everyone already on the scene to get away from the building – including all the officials in the building itself. "Get everyone as far as they can get in any direction!" he barked into the device as he took a corner too fast. "Don't focus on one exit!"_

"Because that's what everyone thought, you know?" he shook his head as he remembered the rush of urgency that pushed him on faster and faster.

Because he knew – they both did – that the Captain had been in the building and there was the very likely possibility that Joan wasn't just going to up and leave without him if there was the slightest chance that he would make it to safety.

Looking back on it now, knowing at least a little more about the circumstances, he couldn't help strongly suspecting that Joan's motivations were blanketed in the dust of the World Trade Center and the knowledge that at least one cop wouldn't be ending his Watch alone. That if it was time, then someone he was close to would be right alongside.

He and Holmes had ditched the car and ran the last few minutes to the perimeter to make sure Gregson and Joan would be there if they'd gone out the front, a radio being pushed into his hand with the Captain's frequency.

"Me and Holmes got to the front facing side of the perimeter," Marcus couldn't stop the slightly humorless smile as it crossed his face. "And the building fell."

 _They'd first believed that the building would fall toward the front, so everyone stared in complete silence as the building toppled backwards, the back half going first before taking the front half with it._

 _Marcus was hardly aware of the fingers fisted in his jacket as the others began to realize that the building **fell the wrong way** and they had **no idea where anyone was**._

 _He looked away from the devastated building and glanced toward a senior firefighter as he stared at the ruins with horror, the color rapidly leaving his face._

 _"Somebody answer me!" another voice shouted above the rising chatter, unadulterated panic coloring the words._

 _That panic was infecting everyone else as they began diving for their radios and frantically trying to check people in and Marcus felt that same panic ringing inside his own body as he looked around for the Captain or Joan and realized –_

 _"They went out another way," Holmes supplied, gaze turning slightly frantic as he too scanned the crowd. "They didn't come out the front doors."_

 _If they'd come out the front doors, they would have either dived to the side or kept running toward them with scant seconds to spare._

 _They'd had time._

 _At least if the building fell forward, then everywhere else would have been safe._

 _But it didn't, which meant –_

 _Everyone who'd thought running toward the back would be safe had inadvertently put their lives in jeopardy and Marcus suddenly realized that his radio was still silent. One by one around them, radio calls were shakily answered and people were dumped on their knees or the ground by their overwhelming relief._

 _"You son of a bitch!" someone laughed into his radio, swiping at teary eyes._

 ** _"I hear that!"_** _a voice answered back. **"But, hey. If the Twin Towers falling on my head didn't kill me, this stack of pancakes didn't stand a chance!"**_

 _And that –_

 _That did something._

 _Because the scene in front of him was no longer just the wreckage of **one** building._

 _No longer 'just' eleven stories._

 _There were tons and tons and **tons** of concrete rubble and miles of twisted steel as far as the eye could see, dwarfing him by **miles** and how could anyone still be alive under all that and –_

 _"Tommy! Joan! Somebody answer, damn it!"_

 _But the radio just_

 _didn't_

 _answer_

 ** _back._**

"And there were no serious injuries or fatalities?"

He jerked back to see Chantal hanging onto every word, like a child listening to a brand new bedtime story.

"No, uh, no," he swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "Every… everybody made it."

 _"Somebody pick up the bloody fucking radio and **respond**!" _

_No._

 _No._

 _Nononononono **NO.**_

 _Not them. Not them._

 _Please, not them._

 _"Tommy! Joan!" his heart wanted to stop and speed up at the same time, the lighter hand encircling his own squeezing with a punishing grip as they unsuccessfully took turns trying to get a response._

 _Oh my god._

 _Oh my god._

 _Oh my god, no._

 _No, not them._

 _Not them._

 ** _Not them._**

 _Those fucking Towers went straight down on top of them, burying them under miles of wreckage and no way in hell could he get to them._

 _Not with all this dust wrapping skinny fingers around his throat, streaming into his lungs and preventing him from taking a breath of clean air that couldn't be found in any direction._

 _Any rational thought was as white as the smoke surrounding him, entering his nose and wrapping around his brain so it could suffocate him just like the dust clogging his lungs._

 _"Marcus!" a yank almost ripped his arm from his socket as an unshakable force suddenly started pulling him along and he had no choice but to follow._

 _The dust was too thick to have anything penetrate it, but the hand on his seemed to know where it was going and he trusted it to help him._

 _But he couldn't lose it because he would be lost and completely alone and he couldn't grip back because his hand was already gripping something – a completely silent something that should've started talking by now, why was it silent? – and the bruising grip on his hand didn't feel like it was going to let him slip away._

 _He didn't know where it was leading him and it was long minutes – hours, days? – before they suddenly stopped._

 _A voice was saying something, but he didn't understand because the device was silent in his hand and he was willing it to do something because the silence was bad – the silence meant that half of his world was gone, gone, **gone** and he can't handle the reality of knowing there were only two now out of their four – two out of three that he never wanted to live a day of his life without –_

 _"Marcus! Marcus, it's okay!" the voice was almost shouting in his ear. "Look! Gregson and Watson! They're **fine**! They're fine, Marcus! They're bloody okay!"_

 _He was pulled to his knees and a hand was forcing his head down as another voice slowly began to penetrate the dust like a shaft of sunlight._

 _"We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay."_

 _He clung to that voice as words began to make sense and then the dust was receding._

 _The air was suddenly clear and he gulped beautiful lungfuls of it for long moments before the pressure on his hand eased._

 _He glanced up, fearful that the familiar pressure would disappear, too, but his eyes were drawn to the entwined figures in front of them and he could see nothing else but that familiar figure wrapped so completely around the other, smaller, equally familiar figure as those words again penetrated._

 _"We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay."_

 _He'd never heard a sound so beautiful as Joan Watson's voice._

 _He drank sight and sound in, all now right with the world, as Joan's words slowly began to echo with a British accent that Marcus' heart would've broken hearing without._

 _"We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."_

 _Marcus would sit there and listen all day to the duet, but he couldn't just sit. He had to get closer and closer, seeing the makeshift ball tremble violently and his hand was suddenly buried in short strands as another voice joined in. He wasn't sure why the new voice sounded so familiar, but he clung to the words._

 _Those two words spoken with slowly gaining confidence._

 _"We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."_

 _Three voices in unison, keeping perfect time as Marcus felt his other hand move and suddenly a pulse was thrumming against his fingertips that settled something deeper inside._

 _He looked down at the tan wrist attached to a hand that gripped another with white knuckled ferocity, his eyes moving along that other hand and up the arm until calm blue-green eyes met his in a steady hold that told him it was real._

 _Everything was fine._

 _It was alright._

 _The air was clear, fires were doused._

 _Time stood still, but this stillness was freeing now. A moment to sit and breathe and revel in his complete world._

 _One that had become buried in fire and rose from the ashes._

 _Because of one beautiful, freeing, crystal clear, life affirming fact:_

 _We're okay._

 _We're okay._

 _We're okay._

 ** _We're okay._**

"… okay?"

Marcus blinked, drawn out of the past and back to the restaurant. "Huh?"

"Everyone was okay?" Chantal repeated. "Sherlock, Joan, the Captain?"

He stared at her for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, we're okay."

"Right," she tilted her head and studied him as she nibbled on a piece of appetizer. "I think I'm missing an overarching element here," she sipped her drink for a long considering moment. "So, there was a bombing that no one could stop in time, but no casualties and everyone was fine. So…"

She was thinking pretty seriously about it, but he wasn't going to say anything else.

He couldn't.

Not without flashing back to seeing the wreckage and feeling the panic that even now still clawed at him and the radio staying still and silent and the worst realization – the chilling, heart-stopping realization – that a person could have as a result.

"And you know the most frustrating thing?" Chantal scowled at the table. "It feels like I should know what I'm missing. There's this… this alarm bell or something that keeps going off and I know I'm going to kick myself for it later, but I just can't pin it down for some reason."

"Well, maybe it'll come to you," he suggested, absently drinking his water.

"Which it probably will as soon as I go to bed next week."

"Probably."

They sat for a moment before she tipped her head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Well," she lowered her head again with a sheepish smile. "This wasn't the atmosphere or subject that I really wanted. You know what? Let's talk about something else. Something.. positive."

He started on his neglected appetizer as she finished hers with another thoughtful frown.

"Well, maybe not exactly positive, but…" she sheepishly amended, having come up with an idea. "I haven't heard from Joan at all lately. Have you seen them recently?"

"Yer, yesterday. Oh, and Gregson," since he'd taken the day off tonight and couldn't really settle after having no visible evidence of their still being hale and healthy. "Haven't seen Holmes for a while, though," he frowned. "Joan hasn't, either, but says he's been on some sort of research project. Whatever it is, though, he's not tellin' anyone. Not unusual with him, but Joan's on the fence about whether she should push or not."

He hoped everything was alright with the Brit, because Joan had expressed some concern about her partner after he came back from a trip to locations unknown.

'Rocked to the core' was the gist and Marcus once again wondered what could've done that to the usual stoic, 'stiff upper lip' Brit.

Whatever it was, it had to be Irene Level big.

Hopefully not literally, because Irene hadn't actually been a real person and then there was that whole thing with Jamie Moriarty and Irene actually being Moriarty – or the other way around because he could never quite figure that out – and no one had actually had more of an impact on Sherlock Holmes more than J. 'Irene' Moriarty.

Except for maybe Joan Watson, but that was a relationship that gave him headaches trying to understand. He eventually just came to accept the complex relationship and its quirks because it was easier for all involved.

"I hope things work out," Chantal frowned, knowing enough about Holmes and his background to have suspicions.

"Joan'll reach out if she's in over her head," there wasn't a doubt in his mind that his or Gregson's number would be the first on her speed dial in such an event where she needed help, especially if it was Holmes related.

Chantel tilted her head and opened her mouth before closing it thoughtfully.

"What?" he coaxed.

"On the one hand," she finally answered, "I think Joan would fall apart before looking for help, but something tells me that you and the Captain would just have to corner her in some sort of tag-team and she'll start talking. I don't know, it's like the four of you are your own unit or something. It's not bad," she assured, "but I wonder how well all of you know each other. I know you don't think you know a lot – and heaven knows that none of them are exactly open -, but you know more than anyone else does about them. Everyone knows that you're the favorite with the Captain and I heard how Sherlock refused to stick with any Detective after you got shot."

"Probably because they did something that annoyed him," he shrugged. He'd heard those stories, too, but didn't think there was any difference even with their 'partnership' restored.

"He kind of reminds me of a feral cat," she mused. "You remember one of my high school girlfriends moved, right? To Philly. We talk a lot and she said the other day that one of her co-workers was complaining about a feral cat in her neighborhood that suddenly decided to start living under her front porch. It keeps watching her, so she asked around and found out that the cat never really stayed in one place since before she moved there. Out of all the places the cat could've chosen to essentially move in with, it chose her."

"You're sayin' Holmes chose to live under my front porch?" he snorted.

The cat part, actually, seemed about right. Then what would that make Joan? A black cat who decided to keep an eye on the Catnip addict?

Gregson would get a kick out of that.

"Something like that, yeah," she shrugged. "Is that really such a crazy idea?"

She excused herself to the restroom a moment later as Marcus amused himself with the thought of Holmes and Joan running around the station as felines constantly getting underfoot.

Damn sight better than thinking of a radio in his hand that wasn't answering his calls.

He was snickering at the idea of a feline Holmes in a chicken costume when his phone buzzed in his breast pocket.

The contact number was from one of the other Detectives, but the smile dropped from his face when his eyes locked on the message:

 _'Brownstone. NOW'_

He was diving into his car seconds later and the drive was one blur after another – at one point there might've been a cruiser siren behind him, but he didn't remember – until he was parking and staring in horror at the row of houses alight with flames and smoke pouring from the familiar block.

"Marcus!" a hand almost yanked his arm from its socket as he darted past. "Stop!"

"Let me go!" he snarled, trying to yank his arm back, but found himself pinned face first into a building down the street from the place he and Gregson had gotten so familiar with the past handful of years.

The Brownstone was just as much a part of Holmes and Watson as solving puzzles were. It had become part of their identity and – and now…

"Marcus Bell, snap out of it and listen to me," the voice almost yelled into his ear. "Gregson's about to pull up now, but Holmes and Watson are alright! We have eyes on them, Watson just got in. Both are fine."

The panic was trying its damndest to pull him under, but the wall his face was being forced into was helping reason fight back as the rough surface gave him friction to focus on. He might be plucking hair out, but the more sensation he got, the more focus his mind had.

"That's it," the voice encouraged, Marcus' mind clearing enough to recognize the voice as one of the older Detectives from the 11th. "You're getting there."

The man's weight managed to ground him, but he still had to see Holmes and Watson for himself to make sure they were alright.

There was a commotion nearby a few moments later, signaling Gregson's arrival.

"Captain!" someone called. "Bell is over here!"

"Marcus," the older man suddenly materialized next to him as he was finally released.

"Hey, Captain," he greeted, keeping his side propped against the wall as he turned to see barely contained panic and worry clashing with exercised professionalism as his eyes moved constantly from one point to another.

"Seen 'em yet?" a hand clamped on his arm as they moved more toward the Brownstone and he let that grip more or less keep him up as his legs felt like jelly.

"No, but someone has," he was vaguely aware of answering. He, too, searched for two familiar figures in the crowd of activity, his very self pleading with something he wasn't actually sure he believed in to find them in one piece.

The fire ran hot as they watched the firefighters try to tame it. The smoke billowed into the night sky that had already seen too much.

Too much loss, heartbreak, tragedy.

Doubtless how much more it would see in the centuries to come.

The smoke, though, looked like rolling clouds and Marcus' mind couldn't help flashing to other images – these in daylight against a beautiful blue sky -, smoke rolling over the top of one antennaed Tower before the last collapse in a chain of events that lasted at least two hours.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

He wrenched his mind back to the present as he scanned the faces around them, refusing to look back at the carnage.

His eyes slid past the crowd around him several times, panic growing the more he failed to see two familiar faces that should've met them already, and it seemed pure luck that someone further down caught his gaze and waved frantically.

He was tearing past EMS, onlookers, cops, firefighters, hoses, equipment – hell, an ostrich for all he cared -, before slamming to a halt and spying two figures struggling with each other on the ground. Something clenched as his eyes locked on them and someone was yelling into his ear, then he was hitting the ground on his knees right next to them.

Marcus maneuvered into Holmes' line of sight to see unfocused light eyes – or maybe not completely unfocused as Joan tried to escape her partner's iron grip. He found his fingers buried in soft hair as he tried getting the other man's attention, Joan's attention so completely on the Brownstone that he didn't think he would be able to get her attention.

Holmes' eyes were locked on him, his lips moving around what looked like familiar words the longer Marcus watched him. His hearing was strange, though, so he couldn't hear even if he wanted to.

"Joan," his attention went to her as his free hand gripped her shoulder. "Joan!" he slightly shook her, but his hearing was muffled still. Her mouth was moving as tears streamed from her eyes, but Marcus just couldn't hear as he tried to bring her attention to him.

He didn't even know if he was saying anything and wasn't sure if that was just him or not. He looked at Holmes, but Joan jerked and was suddenly scrambling up.

"Joan!" panic had him diving after her, not hesitating to haul her back into him, but she was actually stronger than she looked. It didn't help that she seemed hell bent on getting to the Brownstone as it burned.

He was just as hell bent on keeping her away from it, but she fought him so ferociously that he kept losing his grip and she managed to overbalance him, his heart stopping as she slipped away.

"JOAN!" something popped in his ears and he was suddenly hearing a whole cacophony of sounds, but he was fixed on Joan as she tried to race toward the Brownstone.

Luckily, a figure stopped her by stepping into her path so that she crashed into him.

Unluckily, Marcus couldn't stop before slamming into the pair of them and he'd gotten his arms around the struggling figure before realizing that Gregson was on her other side.

"Hold her!" someone yelled as Marcus gripped her with everything he had. A pair of arms gripped him around the bac, pulling him in, as others surrounded them. Almost instantly, the fight began leaving Joan's slight frame and her heartbreaking sobs were muffled into Gregson's shirt as she slid toward drugged sleep.

Eventually, Marcus and Gregson were the only things preventing her from slipping completely to the ground as others stepped back, but Marcus only pressed closer to Gregson as his own legs started going a little unsteady.

"Hey," a voice rumbled in his ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just…" Marcus tightened his grip on Joan as Gregson tightened his grip on him. He breathed Joan's shampoo, with hints of either lotion or a slight perfume, mixed with Gregson's light aftershave and felt his racing heart start to calm.

'We're okay,' he reminded himself. 'We're okay. We're okay.'

Gregson seemed to know what Marcus needed and stood solid as he leaned his and Joan's weight into him.

He reluctantly stepped back long minutes later, keeping his grip on Joan's unconscious body as he did so. "What was that all about?" he asked as a few Uniforms from the Department came forward to take her.

Gregson absently dismissed them as he scooped her up himself. "Hell if I know."

"Uhm, sir?" one of them spoke up uncertainly. "I don't mean to… well, from what I understand, it… it seemed like she wanted to retrieve something."

"Nothin' could be _that_ important," Marcus frowned. "Enough to get yourself toasted over."

"You would be surprised," Gregson quirked a smile as he got a better grip on their Consultant.

"What, you got somethin' you'd run into a burning building for?" he quirked a disbelieving brow.

"You don't?"

"Sirs?" one of the female Uniforms got their attention, amazement and disbelief coloring her features. "What… um, what are we going to do with Holmes?"

Marcus looked over Gregson's shoulder. "I don't know," he watched the fire, Gregson turning slightly to follow his gaze. "I guess the Brownstone's history," and that…

He was probably in shock, because he should feel something about that.

Instead, all he could really think was, 'Hudson's gonna kick someone's ass for this.'

"No, it's – it's not that. I mean, that's part of it, I guess?" Marcus turned back to see her helpless shrug. "It's just… he's over there," she pointed at the figure still on the ground, two other Unis standing sentinel over him. "He's… he's probably fine, but –"

"Spit it out, please," Gregson ordered to cut into the matter.

"He's either passed out or… asleep."

"… what?"

Marcus blinked up at the ceiling with an arm tossed over his chest and an unfamiliar mattress against his back.

He blinked a few times, turning his head to the right and tracing the arm back to a mop of long black hair. Beyond that, a mop of shorter lighter hair was buried in the pillow.

"Mornin'," Gregson greeted as his figure ambled into view above him when he looked back. The older man looked like he'd gone on an overnight bender, complete with mussed hair and bruised eyes over rumpled clothes. "You passed out in the car."

He stared for a long moment before memories started trickling back.

"The Brownstone," he brought a hand up to rub his eyes. "Hell."

"My exact thoughts," Gregson sat on the chair next to the bed Marcus had been piled onto. "Can't believe it," he sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "We don't know what happened, but we're taking precautions considering their other clients. From what we've gathered, Joan just wrapped up a burglary case and Holmes was off doin' God knows what. Hudson called. The turtle and the bees are fine."

"That's good to hear," Marcus knew how much bees meant to Holmes and he himself felt relief that he wasn't going to have to break the 'about your turtle' news like one time back when he worked Patrol. And he supposed he could admit to being fond of the small pet that sometimes sat by his shoes and once let him feed it a lettuce leaf.

"Yeah, well," Gregson huffed a slight sigh. "Bad enough we're gonna have to break the 'about your Brownstone' news if they don't already remember."

A pulse thrummed under his fingers and he blinked down to see his own hand wrapped around the limp wrist over him.

'We're okay,' he decoded, his heart thrumming the same. 'We're okay. We're okay.'

"Bad enough we'll have to break that news," Gregson leaned back and crossed his arms. "Just didn't expect to feel torn up about it."

The Brownstone was part of the dynamic that was Holmes and Watson, and basically the center of their crazy world.

Strangely enough, Marcus understood what the Captain meant, because knowing that he'd never walk through the cluttered halls and rooms and look over Manhattan from their rooftop again…

Knowing late nights and easy nights and unintended nights on the floor with Gregson, Watson – sometimes Alfredo and Kitty once or twice -, Clyde shuffling over his legs and Holmes watching them sleep. It honestly should've been creepy as hell, but there was a – a comfort in knowing someone he trusted was keeping watch.

Knowing a quick stop lasting well into hours, knowing he wouldn't knock on that door again, knowing picking up people or things and celebrating holidays and birthdays and once even a toy poodle's adoption day and seeing Holmes stare at his 'wall of crazy' and Joan sliding his 'Good Luck' mug in front of him.

All of it.

Just…

Gone.

Knowing none of that would ever happen again in the Brownstone made emotions well up that made him blink back tears and sobs that suddenly wanted to bubble up.

Maybe it hadn't been home, exactly, but it was close enough.

Gregson reached out and squeezed his shoulder in understanding. "I know. There's just something…"

He let the touch and the pulse against his fingers ground him, the reminder that the ones who had made the Brownstone what it had been were still there.

"Looks like we'll be here for a few days," Gregson spoke after enough time had passed. "At least until we figure out what caused the fire."

Marcus nodded, throat raw from the emotional outpour – which didn't make much sense because he hadn't lived there -, and levered himself up slightly to see his bedmates. "How're they?" he rasped.

"Not entirely sure," Gregson admitted, his hand staying in place to assist his movements. "Joan's still sedated and who knows what's wrong with the other one. Looks like hell, though."

"Case?" he eyed the Brit as he slept on completely unaware of his surroundings.

"We'll have to ask. If it was, it's not one of ours."

Marcus slowly sat up, holding Joan's wrist a second longer before setting it gently against her side and swinging around to sit on the edge, pausing before pushing upright on two legs that almost dumped him right back down again.

"Easy," Gregson supported him as they made their way to the three person table in front of the sofa. The curtains were drawn except for a stripe in the middle that let enough light in to see. "I'll go get some breakfast. Can you keep an eye on things?"

"Go," Marcus nodded. He was left with a bottle of water, a roll of paper towels and two Consulting Detectives who slept on.

The bottle was half done by the time he remembered the phone in his pocket. Missed calls were from a variety of people – mostly from everyone who knew Holmes and Joan and heard about the fire -, and Gregson probably started spreading the word because the calls stopped after midnight.

Really, the most recent call was at one by –

Chantal.

Oh _no_.

He winced as he night's memories rolled over him.

Bad enough he ran out on the date – the First Year Date, no less -, but she'd more than likely had still been in the bathroom when he left.

He looked at her name on the screen for a long moment before letting out a sigh and deciding to get it over with. 'How upset are you?' he ventured through text.

 _'Marcus?_ ' came her immediate response, almost like she was waiting for some kind of contact from him. _'Is everyone in one piece? I heard on the news.'_

'We're okay,' he assured. 'I can't tell you were we are, but we're safe right now.'

 _'Joan and Sherlock?'_

He glanced over at them and sighed. 'Joan was more affected than he was. We think he's been on some kind of case. They're both asleep."

 _'And Clyde? The bees?'_

Gregson said they're okay, too. No one or thing had been home at the time.' That was probably the luckiest timing he'd ever seen.

 _'I get Joan and Sherlock being out, but the animals?'_

'Just adds to the question pile.'

 _'I'm glad everyone's alright. Can you talk?'_

'Not at the moment,' he decided. 'Not physically, anyway. Listen, I'm sorry about running off last night.'

 _'Do you regret it?'_

That was an odd thing to ask.

'Regret missing a milestone?' he checked. 'Sure.'

 _'That's not what I asked and you know it.'_

Chantal was wonderful and he could see them together for at least a couple more years – if nothing else happened before then. And after? Who only knew -. She was smart and gorgeous and funny and he felt very comfortable with her.

And yet…

' _Well, okay. Let me rephrase,_ ' Chantal suggested. ' _If we finished the night under different circumstances – after a serial case -, what would be your reaction to hearing about the Brownstone?'_

Had it been a serial case, instead of a bombing case, year, he'd be concerned about Holmes and Joan. They were his friends – as strange as that was – and he would want to know they were alright.

Since there was a distinct possibility that it could be arson, anyway, he would be concerned had he not shown up to the fire. The two would've been missing and he would probably push to know their location, but…

'I wouldn't have left, I guess,' he answered.

 _'Fair enough_ ,' she accepted. ' _But it wasn't a serial, was it? It was a bombing and the building collapsed_.'

And it was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, the deafening silence as the wreckage settled.

The deafening silence coming from the radio he held.

There was only one reason why Gregson or Joan wouldn't answer and his world was falling apart as a hand squeezed his just as hard as something squeezed his chest and there was dust in the air and he couldn't breathe.

"Bell? Marcus?" he was suddenly taking deep breaths as a pair of blue eyes swam into focus. "With me?" Gregson was squeezing his shoulder.

"Yeah," he choked, eyes we from the coughing, dust, _panic_. "Fine."

"Not sure if this is going to help, but I think you need it," a warm cup was in his hands and he closed his eyes at the first sip of caffeine just the way he liked it. "Just sit and breathe."

His friend's hand stayed on his shoulder as he worked his way through a fifth of the cup before his phone buzzed a few times with new messages.

 _'I thought so_ ,' she'd replied when he didn't answer. _'I'm not a cop and I was out of town, but I can only imagine what happened on 9/11. Figured out the missing element, by the way. You can imagine how hard I'm kicking myself._

 _'I think you should know that I was actually on my way back to the table when you to a text message. Knew right away that it was either Gregson, Joan or Sherlock because I've seen your reaction to news about your actual family and neither one has ever made the color drain from your_ _face that quick._

 _'Take care of them, okay? We'll make up last night in a month, which should give you some time to see what the situation is. Worst case scenario, we have the First Year Anniversary a week before our Second. Don't worry about anything from my end. Just focus on them.'_

Just focus on them.

He looked past Gregson to the lumps he'd left on the bed and what he wouldn't give to be back under Joan's arm in that bed, her pulse soothing him.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

He would probably never know if he would've come to a similar conclusion at a different time, but it was all academic now. For the three people in front of him, he would walk through literal fire if he had to and he couldn't recall off the top of his head if he would do the same for anyone else.

He had a feeling he wouldn't.

"Nothin' means the same when it's someone you're in the habit of seein' every day," he swallowed. "Then everything you thought you knew – everything you _wanted_ to think you knew – just gets jumbled up."

Had it been anyone else on the other end of that radio, he wouldn't have been personally affected to such a sever degree. Probably would've gone right on thinking someone like him would've been able to handle 9/11 if that was the case.

But it hadn't been and he was stuck with nightmares he didn't have any business even having, never mind how Gregson did it.

Marcus may have – at one point – wanted to be a 9/11 Responder, but not anymore. The real ones were like this exclusive club he didn't have a chance to be part of.

He didn't want to be, he knew that now.

"You were there on 9/11," he spoke almost absently, brown eyes meeting blue. "You have nightmares. When did you start subbing one of us in those nightmares?"

"A week ago," he smiled slightly. "I have the nightmares, sure, but not until last week that they got worse."

"Am I allowed to have those, too?" he couldn't help asking.

"What, and leave me alone to deal with them?" the smile turned warm. "You can have nightmares about anything you want."

He felt a little better about it as he turned his gaze back to the sleeping pair.

"We're okay," Gregson squeezed his shoulder a little tighter. "We're okay."

"We're okay," Marcus echoed, holding onto that with desperation. "We're okay."

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

He turned back to his phone and typed, 'No, I don't.'

' _Good_ ,' she answered a moment later. ' _I'd have shot you with your own gun if you said you did_.'

He would've gladly let her.

'I'm not sure when I'll be able to meet up again,' he warned her. 'We don't have a lot to work with right now.'

 _'Well, I hope you get answers soon. We'll need to start rebuilding the Brownstone pretty soon, once everything is cleared up, I mean.'_

'Rebuild?'

 _'Of course,'_ as if there was any doubt. _'The Freedom Tower didn't just build itself, you know. We'll rebuild the Brownstone and everything will more or less get back to normal. We rebuilt after 9/11 and we can rebuild after this, too.'_

Marcus nodded slightly and sighed. 'Okay.'

 _'Good. I have to go, but we'll talk again soon.'_

'Have a good day,' he bid her before she went silent.

"Well?" Gregson was watching him.

"Uh, that was Chantal. She said that we're going to rebuild the Brownstone."

"Alright," he nodded, settling back on his heels. "Then that's what we'll do."

That's what we'll do.

The Freedom Tower didn't just build itself.

We rebuilt after 9/11 and we can rebuild after this, too.

That's what we'll do.

 **We're okay.**

"Alright," Marcus nodded, watching their Consultants.

That's what we'll do.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

We'll rebuild, because we're okay.

If we aren't right now, we will be.

"Here," something was shoved in his hands and he started eating without looking away from the two on the bed.

 **We're okay.**

They were all together and that would make it okay.

"We're okay," he mumbled around the food he was eating.

"We're okay," Gregson agreed, a hand squeezing his shoulder again.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 ** _We're okay._**

* * *

End Part Two

* * *

** Next Chapter Peek:

"My sincerest apologies for my earlier... transgression."


	3. Sherlock

AN: Overestimating my typing ability aside, here's the third chapter.

Apparently, hyperlinks do not show up. Just know that the materials referenced are all real. If you are of a mind, I recommend (I guess) reading/watching them. But reader discretion is advised, because, you know, 9/11.

* * *

Part Three: Sherlock

* * *

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 ** _We're okay_** **.**

It was quite fascinating how completely and thoroughly panic managed to infect a populace, each individual member allowing it to grow and flourish inside their being before passing it onto the next.

It didn't have to be a physicality – such as a head covering or the color of one's skin – or something as overt as someone shouting 'Fire!' in a crowded theatre.

Sometimes, it was the absolute smallest, most trivial detail that spawned panic.

Now, finding the source of that panic was something that Sherlock Holmes fancied himself rather good at.

It was like child's play at times, making him wonder yet again at how the people around him simply couldn't see it for themselves.

He'd long ago gave up any pretense of vulnerability toward this particularly infectious disease and he was all the better for it.

Nothing could touch him as a result of his utter immunity, because that's exactly what it was; an immunity.

That wasn't to say he abhorred it, no. After all, one of the sources of enjoyment he derived from life was the amusement that was conspiracy theorists. Panic was something he played with, but only ever to garner the correct response.

If he had ever managed to fall victim to panic, then he'd long forgotten the circumstance.

This was, of course, not counting Irene because the panic and alarm had only been confined to himself.

That was a different type of panic, but ultimately irrelevant compared to the larger, more common, variety.

The one that he was immune to.

As it turned out, however, he was just as susceptible to the disease as anyone else was.

Exactly one and one half weeks ago, there was a bombing that he'd been unable to prevent or stop and there were no casualties. It was something he knew and understood, that things beyond his control happened regardless of preparations or the resources dedicated to the prevention of said things.

He'd watched the building fall back, knowing he couldn't have done anything differently, and he automatically started pinpointing where the explosives had been placed due to infrastructure failure. It wasn't difficult and he would most certainly gloat about it to Watson in the future when she and the Captain deemed to join them.

Teach her to neglect her studies in maths and physics, a shameful neglect indeed concerning her previous occupation as a surgeon.

They would join them because he knew how both Watson and Captain Gregson exerted physical activities and their being trapped would provide sufficient motivation to self-propel to safety. That, for him, was not in question.

The building collapsed in a way that was perhaps intended due to whatever variables existed that would eventually be examined and that was that.

Nodding to himself, he glanced around and realized the almost unnerving silence was not, in fact, a self-construct. Everyone around him was mesmerized by the wreckage in front of them and, well, that was understandable.

He could admit to seeing a… a kind of beauty in a building collapse and he'd bore witness to quite a few – albeit controlled – demolitions over the years. Many of those present doubtless had yet to see such a total collapse in this manner, so the 'tourist' factor was in play.

Understandable. Everyone did it.

Whether they admitted to that was another matter entirely, but there was no actual shame.

Destruction was its own way of showing one how lucky one's life really was in the long run. Misfortune was somewhat fascinating when not experienced firsthand.

Also understandable.

He wasn't above such tendencies himself, especially when he was tasked with rebuilding it and then destroying it again.

There was something to be said about beautiful chaos.

He peeked at Marcus, but he was just as transfixed as everyone else around them.

The human ability to snap out of something like wonder was going to take a moment and he was resolved to wait it out until the reacting phase began – which it did.

Except…

Panic began to paint the faces of those nearest him as mute observation gave way to … to what, realization? And…

Was that recognition?

Then, suddenly, reaction was all around him – fueled by pure, unadulterated _panic_.

And, yes, he did understand that concern for one's colleagues would attribute to a sort of panic – as it rightly should -, but what surprised him the most was the degree of that panic and how it almost independently hit everyone _at the same time._

Something that doesn't just happened without a very good reason.

He glanced back at Marcus, who was looking around and asking about their missing half, something that he suddenly started wondering about himself. He didn't worry, however, and did his best to relay his thoughts in a calm manner.

And, yet, the radio Marcus held in his hand remained silent. That wasn't something at all characteristic with the Captain and Sherlock frowned at it. Around them, radios squawked and voices – somewhat shakily – came over the line, making people fall to their knees in relief.

Relief was yet another understandable thing, but this was debilitating relief that was not usual as far as he understood.

He was about to say something to Marcus, but he looked at him and found that same group-wide panic suddenly overcome him, making him shout into his radio a plea for response.

And, somehow, the Detective's slowly growing panic began making his own heart beat faster.

Something was wrong - something _had_ to be wrong – because Marcus didn't lose his senses like this unless someone's life was in mortal danger and -

 _Why was the radio not working?_

His heart beat faster and he grabbed Marcus' hand so he, too, could speak into the radio.

His mind was suddenly zinging all over, pulling up facts and probabilities and construction site crime scenes and –

"Somebody pick up the bloody fucking radio and _respond_!" he barked.

Because they should've shown up by now!

Why haven't they shown up by now?

"Captain! Watson!"

He looked wildly at Marcus, but he was still of a small part of mind that he recognized the Detective either going into shock, descending into a panic attack or some combination thereof and that probably scared him more than anything else.

Marcus Bell simply didn't _do_ panic attacks, but he was clearly going into one because he was gasping for air and choking and not listing to Sherlock, whose alarm was heightening in response.

And then, purely because he had to _do something_ , he was suddenly running with Marcus in tow and he couldn't tell if hours had passed by the time they'd made it to the outer most edges of the devastation and he slammed on the brakes when he spied –

"Marcus!" his legs near dumped them both on their arses in relief, being the one virtually holding them both up. "Marcus! Look!"

They were safe.

Suddenly, his vision was cleared, his breathing returned to a normal after-exercise rhythm and his heart rate would take similar time before it, too, returned to normal.

But none of that mattered because Gregson and Watson were safe.

That was all he cared about.

He didn't take his eyes off them as he and Bell reached them, his eyes darting all over the pair and making absent deductions:

The very thin layer of dust over the both of them.

Gregson curled tightly around Watson, as if to protect her from something that dwarfed them both.

The violent trembling Gregson was the cause of.

Watson's quick breathing as she chanted, her wide almond eyes shining with absolute fear as she searched for some holding anchor to keep the Captain's panic from swamping her as it threatened to drag them both to a place Sherlock was unable to follow.

The ferocity with which she locked onto his eyes as they fell to their knees beside them, obviously having found the anchor she desperately searched for.

'She needs to calm down,' he recognized and found his own voice joining hers at a steadier rhythm to force her into fighting her panic. If he controlled her panic, then she would break it on her own.

He had to be the calm one in order to foster it because calm was what those in a panic looked toward and would then follow in turn.

So, he offered his free hand and felt the strength of her panic in her fierce grip, her other hand gripping Gregson's arm as it kept her against him. Almost all that was visible was her face and the hand gripped in Sherlock's own.

" _We're okay_ ," he said with her, consciously slowing ever so slightly as he did. " _We're okay. We're okay."_

A look at Bell showed something like shock setting in as his free hand gripped the Captain's hair with fingers that either shook from his own nerves or the violent shivering rocking both Gregson and Watson's bodies. In order to ground him further, he easily made the lax hand drop the radio before wrapping it around Watson's thin wrist and holding it there.

" _We're okay_ ," he and Watson chanted. " _We're okay. We're okay._ "

Then, of his own accord, Marcus started chanting along.

" **We're okay. We're okay. We're okay** ," the trio of voices drew from each other as their conviction strengthened and Sherlock clung to that, perhaps needing grounding of his own in some respect.

 **"We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."**

He imprinted that moment, the four of them, in his memories and made absolutely certain that he wouldn't ever forget, locking it inside the small vault reserved for special things and moments and there was certainly enough room in there for this newest, most precious addition.

Because they were alive and they were together.

 ** _"We're okay."_**

That was all he really needed.

* * *

The Captain was delivered to hospital – drugged or passed out, he couldn't recall – and he, Watson and Bell waited for him to wake.

He stood at the door as Watson clung to Gregson's hand and Bell took the window.

Sherlock didn't stay the whole time, of course, running errands and interference and it occurred to him then on one such venture out into the corridor that he'd fallen victim to panic.

But it hadn't been his own panic, no.

He'd subconsciously panicked as a result of seeing Marcus panic, a response to the panic around them.

And it was the source of _that_ panic that wasn't readily apparent.

The one that had everyone calling frantically for head counts in the aftermath of the building's collapse and the utterly astonishing degree that it appeared.

How could such panic – at such a high degree of unprecedented strength – affect a group of people with the same ferocity at the same time, yet completely independent of each other?

That didn't just occur by happenstance.

And that was something he would've figured out in due time had the Captain's awakening not also incidentally come with the answer he sought:

September 11, 2001.

He got his 'why' and he got his 'when', but that didn't quite explain 'how'.

Oh, he was – though vaguely – aware of the events of '9/11', as it came to be known, but that was quite accidental on his part.

During the course of his Apiary interests, his study had taken him to the crash site of United Flight 93 in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. The details of that data sample could now be deemed irrelevant to the new data he was in search of, but he did recall the simply elegant Memorial. It was simple, yet elegant because of it.

Partitions with the names of American heroes to be forever remembered and that was more or less it.

As far as his memory went, of course.

He was certain that it wasn't just the partitions, but he'd only done a cursory glimpse to show some semblance of respect before moving on.

The Pentagon had come up a number of times in the course of independent investigations, so he was relatively familiar there, as well.

The New York of 9/11, however, was completely unknown to him.

Before, he simply hadn't cared about the illustrious 'Ground Zero' and the fractured successor dubbed the 'Freedom Tower', the building now taking the title 'One World Trade' and bringing to mind the odd thought of two angularly petaled flowers in an intimate embrace.

It had no bearing on his own thoughts, processes or identity and it actually came across as a bit of an insult to think it would. He wasn't definable by an event, thank you very much, and you would do well to remember that.

He would've gone on – quite happily, in fact – without really knowing what happened, had it not been for the collapse of one and one half weeks ago.

Because that was the source of the unusual panic and he was not about to forget the variety of expressions his three… friends had displayed.

It had brought them to the most simplistic elements of human nature in an almost juvenile fashion and he had to know why. That's just what he did.

The fact that it was personal this time was irrelevant. He needed to get into the mindset of the three closest people to him and it would typically not take much effort considering how well he knew said three.

No, the real difficulty had lain with the fact that he was – by and large – an outsider.

He loved the City to his core – in its own way, incomparable with London -, but he was not attuned to it the way Watson, Gregson and Bell were.

To understand their panic was to understand the even known as 9/11 in its relation to New York as it was that day. And to do that…

Well, he would first have had to have actually been in New York at the time instead of undercover in the heart of Europe and, second, would have had to witness it firsthand as it happened in real time.

Meaning that it was actually impossible to do considering the fact that he was about sixteen years too late.

He thought on that unavoidable obstacle as the other three slept around him that night. It hadn't been until lunch the next day that he finally decided to recreate the… well.

Perhaps not the actual event, because that quite honestly told him nothing.

It was the panic that his friends had inadvertently dragged him into and it was that panic that he wanted to understand and dissect, which he couldn't do if he kept himself at any kind of distance.

That led to the conclusion that if he wanted to understand, he would have to go through a recreation of what it meant as a New York citizen on that day.

He couldn't just be an observer or a Detective looking at a cold case. He had to actually put himself in the 9/11 New York mindset in order to actually understand the people who were there – close enough to create a panic at even that eleven story reminder.

The first step in doing that, however, was to acquaint himself in a long overdue introduction to the late World Trade Center, dubbed 'The Twin Towers'.

There were, of course, a number of other buildings that were destroyed as well – such as the Marriot on the Plaza and Building Seven -, but they were not the intended targets. Nor were the buildings demolished as a result of severe damage incurred during the twin collapses.

So, he directed his focus to the iconic 'Twin Towers'.

He started from the very beginning, to the World Trade Center's very inception.

He found blueprints and floor plans and materials and suppliers and every person who was ever involved in the double construction, familiarizing himself with all of them right down to their blood types.

He had to be extremely careful in his research because of the subject matter and the… eyes that surrounded him, so he took care to keep all of it as far away from Watson, Gregson and Bell as he could get without leaving New York – or the country, for that matter – and studied as much as he could for as long as he could stand.

As a result, by the third evening since the single collapse, he knew every bolt, lightbulb, pane of glass and beam of every piece of steel that covered both Towers from top to bottom and more besides.

By the time he finally arrived at the 1993 Bombing of the World Trade Center, he knew the Towers like the back of his hand – as much as he could, considering the fact that he'd never been and likely never would experience any of it in real life.

His mind created sufficient substitutes, so in a way perhaps he truly was visiting the marvel of engineering that had been One and Two World Trade. From the shopping concourse to the Sky Lobbies and even to the Windows on the World located at the top of Tower One. He knew it all. And what he didn't, his mind more than readily filled the blanks.

In his mind, he wandered the streets of Lower Manhattan, catching glimpses of either Twin at any given time. Always there when he looked up, in every sort of weather.

Sometimes, he would run into Watson on her own leads and investigations and they would both lunch where they could watch the Towers in all their elegant splendor.

They were a constant, a sort of security blanket or touchstone. Everyone could look upon them even when their own lives were collapsing around them, knowing that at least the Towers were still standing.

As long as they were there, everything would work itself out.

He let himself fall into it, allowed his mind to mimic that optimism and it was – somehow – actually comforting and soothing and he much preferred it when Watson was with him and they would inevitably run into Gregson and Bell some days.

He adored it more than description allowed and sincerely hoped the other three did, too.

And then 1993 brought with it a bombing and the surprisingly heart-wrenching knowledge that Gregson and Bell would be going down there. Nothing collapsed, however, and that only seemed to heighten and solidify the belief that those Towers could withstand the world ending.

That, however, was not to be.

By the time he felt sufficiently ready to tackle 9/11, the details of the event were either murky to him or non-existent. It was intentional to create a sort of shock value to his little experiment.

It was day four after the singular collapse when he chose to tackle the oral histories – not quite eyewitness testimony because he wasn't looking at this like a case. The oral histories helped him pinpoint the story teller's location, subconsciously building a likely location for his mental self to be.

Of the oral histories, there most certainly quite a few of them.

Dozens upon dozens by the _hundreds_ , not all of them actually published in books – the glories of social media and the human need to reach out and connect -, all of them independently useless but together painting a _beautiful_ picture.

With the depth and scope of viewpoints at his disposal, he was able to bring his mental New York to life and would walk its streets with Watson and Bell to smooth any rough edges. With his populated City thriving and flourishing around him, he felt it time to look at pictures to make it as close as he could and then he would see about looking at final results.

He found a book of photographs done by the New York Police Department's 'Shutterbug Unit' and focused on those concerning the actual building collapses, though he did find a grouping of people in the aftermath with what looked like then Detective Gregson standing to the side.

Obviously, the man had been there. Why was he so surprised?

He found other pictures – some published on paper, some not – and he ran across a truly fascinating read by the news anchors and correspondents of the Cable Broadcasting System. It truly was astonishing, the moments in time and locations of people as the 9/11 events were unfolding. It came with a disc containing the news coverage during and after the day in question, but the footage was going to be seen last so he could put all the pieces together in a stream of fluid continuity because words and pictures only told part of the overall story. He had a queue lined up in that category, of course, collecting documentaries as he went along.

In the course of his research, he also discovered a fascinating study/interpretation concerning the photographs that came out of the Event and made a note to add it to his collection of human behavior studies. Truly fascinating.

The more he studied, the more apparent it became that 9/11 had been a singular point for human nature in so many aspects with so many eyes in all the right places to later create a single unique moment captured in time.

9/11, then, became a study of human nature itself; who ran, who stayed, who did get out, who didn't, how the survivors deal with all of this utter surreality, how the process of healing encompassed the entire City in the purest forms of human expression.

It was a sociologist's _dream_.

In a number of cases, it slowly transitioned from 9/11 to the study of the reaction to the very thing itself. If more people looked at all of this beautifully raw data while looking away from 9/11, more people would see in intricacies and complexities and sometimes the baffling simplicity that comprised what human nature truly was.

Why the bloody hell had he never looked at this before?

A gross neglect on his part.

But, on the other hand, this was useful now in his little recreation. Who is to say he would've understood it before he embarked on this endeavor? Context, context, context. As he'd told everyone around him continuously.

Eventually, he was ready to watch footage and retrieved the disc that accompanied the CBS book, popping it into a player and settling in for the two hours.

To this day, he still can't remember how he managed to return to the Brownstone without having walked into oncoming traffic.

Perhaps it had been a bit foolish to watch 9/11 footage away from the Brownstone, partly because he was preoccupied with snapping things into place and looking for continuity errors amongst what he'd already set up, partly because he'd suddenly felt like he was neglecting his bees and Clyde and was out the door before realizing it.

There was also, curiously enough, the sudden need for human company.

He was fairly certain that he'd startled Watson somehow with his complete disregard for personal space – not like he'd had any to begin with -, but he suddenly didn't want her out of his sight and he wasn't certain why that was.

Yet, he had to continue his project and used earbuds and tablet while making sure that Watson was in sight and within reach if need be.

Luckily, she didn't think anything of his obsessed preoccupation as he moved from one documentary to the next. One about the jumpers, one about the Towers themselves, every conceivable bit of footage he could dig up was consumed by his project building mind.

One documentary, as it turned out, hadn't even started out to be about 9/11. The French brothers had actually wanted to document a fireman from fresh out of the Academy to see how he grew and matured with the job. Then 9/11 happened and the brothers found themselves in the heart of it all as it occurred. That one stuck with him, due in part to the raw emotions in the Aftermath and to the actually touching reunion the brothers had.

Frankly, he himself wouldn't care about Mycroft caught up in it the way these other two cared about each other, but then they'd spent the entire time convinced the other was dead. Sherlock wasn't very clear about why that glimpse caught him, but perhaps it was because the other siblings actually were very fond of each other and cared about his safety.

The firefighter documentary also stuck with him because of this odd sense of … guilt? Like he was perhaps betraying his NYPD loyalties, which was clearly absurd.

A documentary about firefighters didn't make him a cheater or an oath-breaker or – or what have you, so he shouldn't feel guilty about something not about his precinct. And that's what he told himself, vowing to put the entire matter out of his mind.

Right after he arranged an Thanksgiving repast for those stuck on duty, got something for everyone as an extra 'Secret Santa' gift at the Department and bought out the Fundraiser.

Things he'd always planned to do, but never before had the time.

'No time like the present', as the saying went.

Just to be thorough, he watched it twice more and was halfway through the third time when it occurred to him that this was a documentary about firefighters and _only_ firefighters.

Which meant that he'd no conclusive record on the NYPD – specifically his Precinct.

No record on where any of them were or their activities, unlike the Naudet documentary.

He had no sense of where they were and he found it distressing that he didn't. Because he knew everything, but he didn't know this.

He didn't like that feeling of distress and failure (?), so he stuck that in a corner of his mind to be dealt with later and – purely to make absolutely certain that he wasn't need – paused his research to check in with the Captain and Detective Bell.

The former's response: 'It's two in the morning, Holmes. Where do you think 'is my location'?'

The latter: 'Who is this?'

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize he'd put in the wrong number for Marcus and inadvertently interrupted a late night study session in South Carolina.

'Sorry. My mistake,' he scowled at his phone because it was at fault for him dialing a wrong number. 'Dialed you instead of my colleague. And check your maths again, you're five digits off.'

That done, he decided to just leave it and allow Marcus to sleep unimpeded. It was silly, besides, and for the best that Captain Gregson was the only one to know his momentary lapse.

He'd no doubt be curious, so it would do well to come up with a story to throw him off.

Best keep that story in mind in case Marcus caught wind and became curious, too.

Completely confident in his ability to take care of that later, he felt a sliver of excitement as he thought about his mental project and running the simulation.

The trial run of the simulation, of course, because he had to do a run through of the attacks without other people present to make absolutely certain it would happen exactly the way it was supposed to.

The human factor was going to be added shortly enough and then he would allow himself to truly become immersed in it.

He just didn't factor one very important thing into his plans.

Sleep, as it turned out, was very critical in the course of mental projects.

Something he'd not partaken in since the night before the collapse.

The thing about sleep is that it allowed the mind to float and the subconscious to play with reality.

Dreams were simply a construct of the mind, allowing the deepest fears to surface and situations to spiral out of control and beyond all recognition.

So, it stood to reason that the thing he would be thinking about would follow him into his subconscious.

What he wanted: A simulation – possibly multiple – where he had control of everything, or at least had a majority of control.

What he actually got: An uncontrollable maelstrom of chaos that dragged him under, throwing at him everything he'd placed in a corner during the course of the past week. Every thought, every feeling, everything he hadn't even realized cluttered his mental faculties as a direct result of his research came at him with the force of – well, of a plane hitting a high rise skyscraper at top speed.

He wasn't even aware that he was trapped in a night terror until he hit his head as he fell off the sofa.

Heartbeat thundering in his ears, he swallowed and choked on dry – _not dust-filled –_ clear air. His eyes wildly spun around the room and landed on the clock that revealed the time as just after six in the morning.

' **We're okay. We're okay.** '

He was at the Brownstone. He was in a safe place.

He was not in Lower Manhattan, not covered in dust, but it seemed so _real_.

He'd been caught in the double collapse as he'd struggled to get to Watson, who he'd been so certain was trying to help with triage at the –

Watson!

He was up the stairs, through the door and almost diving into bed with Watson before his mind finally caught up with him, but he didn't really care about anything else.

Watson – beautiful, whole, _breathing_ Watson – was dead to the world as she slept on, completely unaware of the impropriety he'd almost forced on her.

She was there, they were in the Brownstone, the air was clear –

' **We're okay**.'

' **We're okay**.'

' ** _We're okay_**.'

He sunk into the chair across the room and tried regulating his breathing, still wild gaze running all over her in a desperate bid to replace the sharp panic produced by the dream. The night terror that had taken hold of his mental project, ripping the control from him and sending him into the most horrifically helpless situation he had ever come across and hoped fervently that it would never happen in real life. O again, period.

Certainly not while he was still breathing.

He ran a shaking hand over his mouth and blinked as his hand encountered dampness on his cheeks.

Watson was okay, Gregson was relatively safe at home in his own bed and Bell was likely the same.

It was alright.

They were safe.

 **'We're okay.'**

And the crippling relief flooding him sent more tears coursing down his face and he just sat and breathed and reveled in Watson's sleep. As long as she was there and alright, he would be fine.

They would be fine.

They _were_ fine.

' **We're okay.** '

He could almost hear the words as clearly as if they'd been spoken right into his ear and he clung to them with ferocity and relief, like a young child and the favorite toy.

' **We're okay.** '

He couldn't help believing it, his remembered fear slowly vanishing in its wake as he drew more upon the three voices chanting in unison.

' **We're okay. We're okay.** '

He sat and listened and soon started to note Watson's increased movements, reluctantly getting up and leaving her room without leaving a trace of his presence.

Somehow, he found himself on the roof, sitting in front of his bees.

Watching them relaxed him further and he finally buried his face in his hands with a deep breath.

'Well, that's me never sleeping again for the rest of eternity.'

Because it had been a horrible experience, completely decimating any control he'd had over his mental New York…

But.

Perhaps the project wasn't a failure in that it took him by surprise – just as it did to so, so many others. It had made him completely helpless, something else that the real event had done to the witnesses. I had also induced a lingering panic in him to check on the welfare of his closest circle – not unlike the country during the day of and days following 9/11.

So, in a sense, the entire project was a complete success – in a bit of a happy accident sort. He should be thrilled that the mental experiment went so well, even to the point of surprising him.

He wasn't easily surprised, which made this particular project that much more impressive, so it should be the most accomplished thing he'd ever completed.

So, where was that familiar rush of excitement t a task well done?

That sense of accomplishment and closure he so craved?

Usually, he would be chomping at the bit to get everyone up so he could crow at his personal success and flaunt his incredible abilities while coming up with tests for Watson to expand her own already developed abilities.

Instead, he felt…

Unmoored.

Scattered.

Anxious to see Watson, who was just waking below him.

Anxious to talk to Detective Bell and see the Captain, both of whom he hadn't contacted much since his project began.

Alarmed at the thought of going more than another moment without contact with the three of them.

Ill at the thought that virtually anything could have befallen them since their last contact.

Hollow and exhausted.

But perhaps the most overwhelming, as he looked across the river to see the Manhattan skyline lined with gold, was the sense of profound loss.

* * *

Exactly one week following one building's collapse, Sherlock decided to finally pay homage at the shrine built to commemorate another's.

Two of them, to be specific, though the aforementioned Marriot on the Plaza and Building Seven seemed to be constantly overlooked in the twin shadows they'd stood in. Even now, but he wasn't quite there for them.

He spent the entire day there in the Museum and soaking up every detail about every word, every picture, every artifact on display. Then he took himself out to the Reflecting Pools surrounded by names that evoked memories and pictures and stories.

And for once, his thoughts were still and silent.

For once, he was just like everyone else who browsed the hallowed grounds alongside him. An adopted member of the City of New York.

For once, he wasn't deducing. He was just another in the crowd of visitors, fellow pilgrims to the shrine with the same need to touch, reach out, connect.

For once, he didn't care.

Because here, no matter one's background, skillset or intelligence, everyone was just like everyone else.

Instead of being grating, there was a rightness to it he would be hard pressed to explain. One just had to experience it for themselves.

He ended the day sitting amongst the trees, the noise of the falling water contained within the pools faintly drifting toward him on a very slight breeze.

Perhaps he would return once more before the holidays. He would definitely come back in the future, so he made certain to bookmark this place.

Despite his disdain for anniversaries of date, perhaps the upcoming celebration here would find himself in attendance.

And while he bookmarked this place for the future, he revised his stance on shrines and memorials and their utter banality and influence on the masses. This particular shrine wasn't so much a flaunting of a party's resources or might as it was a tribute to something utterly undefinable. The wonder of what was lost writ in memoriam for the future to learn and mourn and grieve and, ultimately, create and carry on the legacy left.

Something was present here, undefinable and awe-inspiring, sobering and uplifting.

A place borne from devastation and tragedy, a glimpse of an inner strength lifted up for the world to see. 'Look,' it said as leaves rustled. 'Look how strong we can be,' it said among the drops of the pools' falling water.

'Look how strong we are,' it said, whispering on the breeze.

'We have been knocked down. We have been dealt a grievous blow, but that matters little compared to what we can do. Because we're still here and we will continue to be here. We will get back up again, time after time, blow after blow. Go on,' it challenged everyone who cared to listen. 'Give it your best. As long as the memory of this place, of what happened here in this place, we will arise from the ashes. All that is needed is hope, the smallest ember, and the reminder that whatever happens, whatever comes next, we will be okay. And then we will build again. Don't be frightened of the future,' it implored in the sunshine that slowly faded. 'We will be okay. We _are_ okay. Because that is who we are.'

If Sherlock had learned nothing else over the past week, it was that human nature was resilient and defiant when – by all rights – it seemed hopeless. He saw this for himself as he scoured material and ambled along this very ground.

A thought came to him and a slight smile twitched his lips.

New York seemed an unique sample of the American Spirit as America seemed to reflect the City in turn.

That, however, he would keep to himself.

If he'd learned nothing else in the course of being in America, it was that Americans were a bit under the illusion that their individual cities stood apart from the rest. He wouldn't claim those cities were unique, er se, but the American Spirit perhaps residing here at Ground Zero had a habit of traveling.

American cities reflected America through different lenses, but it was still America and it was still the American Spirit that was present in some way, shape or form.

Strength, resilience, defiance and ingenuity.

A potent combination, indeed.

As for being an citizen of New York, perhaps that was open to interpretation. 9/11 was most certainly a defining moment – that wasn't an argument -, but maybe that didn't define a City or New York would have stretched from one coast to the other.

'A puzzle for another day, I think,' he decided as he hailed a cab to get back to the Brownstone. He had the craving for Chinese and Watson had definitely been outside of his radius for far too long.

The cab took him over the bridge as he thought and process his day and he was really barely aware of the world outside.

A glimpse of a successful case closed two months ago, there.

Here, on this street, one of Watson's earliest cases before he left.

The fire truck racing past on its way to the Brownstone.

One of their former clients out on the town with her girlfriends.

A future school board candidate actually deciding to run for the school board.

A group of joggers taking a stretch break.

Didn't know why he bothered with windows, really. Tragedy strikes and life goes on and –

 _His Brownstone was on bloody fire_.

Good thing the stoplight turned red when it did because diving out the window of a moving vehicle was something he really wanted to reserve only in circumstances where his life was in or approaching mortal peril. As it was, he barely remembered to toss money at the driver before bolting out onto the sidewalk and racing down the street.

His heart raced in time with his steps and panic pushed him faster. Not for Clyde – who just this morning was delivered to Ms. Hudson's trusted care to try a bit of turtle-sitting – and not for the bees – who had taken considerable time moving to pre-arranged locations for yearly bee duties in personal gardens and the like.

No, the reason for this panic was in the almost certainty he had that Watson was in the Brownstone.

He couldn't think of where else she could be and she'd been having a bit of a break since the collapse a week ago, which mean that she was doing who knew what at the Brownstone and possibly wasn't even aware that her life was in danger.

She could be anywhere doing anything and it still would guarantee that she would make it out.

He absolutely had to get there – to do something, _anything_ – because he'd rather die trying to reach her than be without her and it was a terrifying prospect on a _good_ day, but he didn't even know which bloody Tower she was in and he was not being stopped by a roadblock because didn't they know the bloody pair of them were about to collapse?

He _needed_ to get to her – to know her location -, because they were okay when they were together and they would get through this, but only if they were together and they weren't together and he wasn't okay when she wasn't next to him because she lit up the darkness like a conductor of light and he wasn't going to forgive himself if he didn't at least try to return even an eighth of the light she gave him even at the cost of his own life.

The smell of smoke reached him before he got even close to his street and he experienced a disorienting moment jolting him from some sort of living flashback/nightmare before rounding the corner to see fire trucks and personnel all up and down the block. It being a weeknight, a good number of people probably didn't even know their houses were being consumed by a flaming mass that burned everything it touched.

"Watson!" he ran toward their Brownstone and was ready to dive into the flames, but he was almost tackled to the ground before he had the chance. "Get the bloody fuck off of me!" he demanded, struggling against the bands of steel he found himself enfolded in. "WATSON!"

"She's not there!" a familiar voice yelled into his ear. "Holmes, she's not there! We checked!"

"Listen!" a different voice added in his other ear, the voice more than likely attached to the arms restraining him against a chest. "Bell and Gregson are on their way! But Watson's fine! She's not here!"

His hand was wrapped around a wrist and a calm pulse met his fingers.

"Feel the truth!" a third, feminine, voice demanded. "I know that you can! Watson's fine and not here. I'm not faking the truth and you can tell that! Holmes, deduce! Please, we've seen you do it! Just stop!"

He struggled against the unrelenting arms and the unrelenting panic until he focused on the pulse thrumming calm and steady against his fingers.

It brought to mind the memory of a black hand grasping a tan, finely boned wrist as the first hand's owner looked to him for calm that he readily gave and the chant taken up by a trio of voices.

' **We're okay. We're okay. We're okay.** '

The beat against his back and the other against his fingers grounded him as a hand squeezed his bicep in encouragement. "That's it," the second voice urged, relief slowly replacing the urgency as he calmed, closing his eyes and grounding himself.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

His eyes opened and saw a female face he'd noted several times around the Precinct. Her eyes watched him intently as he took in her off-duty attire, her brown wrist clamped in his hand.

A different face entered his vision and he noted one of the usual back-up Uniforms Bell usually called in to help with a case. He, too, was out of uniform.

"With us?" the familiar voice asked, Sherlock finally able to place it.

"Detective," he swallowed against his dry throat. "Didn't realize you lived in the area."

"I don't, but Dispatch put the word out and I guess we all recognized your address 'cause a lot of us showed up in and out of uniform," the broader man – one of the senior Detectives at the 11th – told him.

A movement behind the female officer caught his eye and he focused on it to see another female, this one in uniform – and then he quite suddenly realized that he'd been virtually surrounded by familiar faces from the Precinct who had, in effect, simply dropped everything when they had heard his address on the radio.

"…"

The 'why' would have to be puzzled out at a different time.

He snapped his focus to the ensnared wrist still in his grip and its owner. "Watson," he managed to tamp down the panic enough to think. "You – you said –"

"She's safe," she smiled reassuringly, light brown eyes reflecting the flames as the fire burned seemingly all around them. "She's actually on her way back. We called to see where she was, but she didn't know where you were and you actually turned your phone off."

While she looked expectant for an explanation, he found none to actually offer.

He would normally just say where he went, but there was something that stopped him.

9/11 was, very much so, a 'very big deal' to New York _specifically_ and he couldn't take the chance that he would inadvertently provoke some sort of flashback even if the officer in front of him had still been in Secondary when it happened.

"Out," he decided finally. "Off… gathering my thoughts," which wasn't technically a lie. "Forgive me, I… I…" he uselessly waved a hand, not sure how to finish, though understanding flooded the faces around him and he let them draw their own conclusions.

His gaze was drawn to the carnage before them and deductions went lightning quick through his mind.

"Even if they do manage to douse the flames," he thought, "Watson's room is most certainly gone. And the entire block will have to be destroyed if it's going to be rebuilt."

"When," someone interrupted.

"What?" he frowned, giving the second man an absent glance.

" _When_ it gets rebuilt," he told him firmly, in no uncertain terms.

He stared at him, completely uncertain about what he was talking about and almost absently certain he might be going into shock. "What?" he asked again before glancing down and remembering the wrist he still held. "Oh," he quickly released it. "Sincerest apologies. Is it hurt? Watson's a former Doctor, you know. She'll take a look at it if you ask."

"Don't worry about it," she responded, not even rubbing her wrist despite wanting to.

He turned his gaze back to the Brownstone, the Detective finally releasing him as he frowned at the place where Watson's room had been.

Something… was niggling at him, but he couldn't seem to pin it down as he usually could.

Something about Watson's room.

Why was there something about Watson's room?

Something… something in there?

He grasped a handful of his short hair and fisted with a slight tug.

There was really nothing he couldn't find elsewhere – most of his possessions scattered all over both the City and the globe -, but Watson was more attached to things than he was. Well, they were both attached to the Brownstone – it had been a home for both of them so long; a sense of stability and belonging had been attached, a security blanket and relative constant -, but he was concerned that Watson wasn't as adaptable.

The strange sense of loss that had plagued him in varying degrees for the past few days had taken on a different, more intimate, feel. But he would certainly get over it.

Watson was a factor he was more concerned about and he kept finding himself coming back to Watson's – now former – room.

Something was there, but he couldn't – he didn't know why he couldn't recall.

Watson was more attached to things than he was.

Something kept pulling him back to Watson's room.

He felt the fire's heat even from this distance.

Had it always run so hot?

Shadows were abound, from facial features to silhouettes, and he'd half a mind to do some sort of experiment if his Brownstone wasn't currently ablaze.

Shame, really. It was such an interesting idea, too.

Maddeningly inconvenient time for his and Watson's shared space to be in flames.

Watson was attached to her things. Things in her room, which was now lost.

Damn it, what was wrong him? He pulled his hair again in frustration.

Focus!

He knew everything – every inch – of Watson's room, he'd been in there for hours at a time as she slept on. He knew what things were present –

No.

No, he didn't.

Realization dawned as the memory finally surfaced.

In his time watching over Watson, he grew very familiar with her things.

Except.

He'd once gone snooping through her bedside table – earlier in their years together – and had come across a rather curious drawstring pouch stuffed in the back of the bottom drawer.

Obviously, something important had been inside, but he'd left it alone.

Now, however, he was kicking himself for stopping because he'd had no honest idea what had been in that pouch, but it had been important.

Important enough to keep it close, but hidden.

There was a high probability that it was now gone and he knew people did stupid things for what they deemed important, but surely Watson wouldn't dare try running into the fire to try to save the pouch and the mysterious contents?

He glanced up and to the side in time to see Watson frozen mid-step toward him, her wide eyes locked on their Brownstone as the color slowly drained from her face.

She would.

"WATSON!" he dove as she changed direction and he slammed into her before she could even try to get to the door.

"Let me go!" she struggled as his arms wrapped around her waist and became steel. " _Let me go!_ "

"Watson! Clyde and the bees are safe!" he grunted as her struggles increased. "They are all safe!"

"No! You don't understand!" she shrieked.

After all these years, she still hadn't mastered the technique of not letting her emotions get the best of her and he – would probably feel a little guilty for this later – took advantage of that fact because she was consumed by panic and unable to recall their lessons of breaking holds and fighting back. It made it easier for him to keep a firm grip on her as words became wordless screams that he'd never thought her capable of.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as she kept screaming, like a piece of her soul was being consumed and she could feel the burning as a physical pain.

Her panic fueled her strength, however, and several hard jerks almost broke his hold. In order to restrain her further, he initiated a controlled fall that took them both backwards and possibly earned him a slight concussion he promptly ignored as he rearranged his limbs to keep her gripped firmly against him.

Somewhere between one moment and the next, her screams suddenly morphed into sobs that jolted through him at the degree of heartbreak he heard.

Because it was most certainly heartbreak and he couldn't help her.

He couldn't fix it because whatever had been in that pouch was gone and her heart was breaking in a way that not even losing Andrew had done.

That was the most terrifying of all: that Watson was broken beyond all repair and he could do anything about it. And it hurt, Sherlock never taking it well when Watson was hurt in some way, but it was also unprecedented because Watson. Never. _Cried_.

In joy, yes.

In mirth, yes.

In anger and frustration, yes.

But not in whatever soul burning pain the loss of the mysterious pouch generated.

The fight suddenly went out of her and she went limp, her slight body rocking even his with the force of her heartbroken sobs.

"It's alright," he said in her ear. "We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."

She slowly shook her head in the negative, but he persisted.

"It will be alright. I'm here. You're with me. We're safe. We're okay."

He held on to both the mantra and his partner and suddenly Marcus was there, wide gaze wildly moving all over them as Sherlock felt a hand in his hair.

The other man's mouth was moving, shaping words he couldn't hear above Watson's distress and his own words.

His head moved and Marcus eclipsed the burning sky, connecting their gazes and Sherlock noted his lips shaping familiar words he couldn't hear.

We're okay.

We're okay.

 _We're okay._

He closed his eyes -

\- and opened them.

The first thing he noticed was the figure he was curled around, Watson's hair touching his nose and he gave a deep sniff almost absently. The scent of shampoo, soap and Watson was calming and it was quite honestly a shame that he'd never noticed before.

The second thing he noticed was that they were both under sheets and on something soft, yet firm.

Odd, considering the fact that he was fairly certain they'd just been in the street.

The third and final thing he noticed was the late afternoon light creeping through the partially closed curtains.

"You slept almost twenty four hours," Gregson's voice had Sherlock craning his head to see the older man sat in a chair at the foot of their bed.

Sherlock blinked for several moments before frowning. "The Brownstone's on fire."

"They put it out after midnight last night," Gregson shook his head and sipped from his cup, Sherlock's deductions telling him that he'd been up for at least three days.

"Preliminary findings?" he put his head back on the pillow and drew Watson in a bit closer.

"Something electrical, but too soon to tell. Six units went up, including yours," Gregson shifted. "Bell's stepped out for a couple hours to scout the area and we've been taking turns staying until we're absolutely certain this isn't anything other than faulty wiring somewhere."

"A wise course of action," he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "And I presume only the four of us knows our exact location?"

"You presume correctly," Gregson confirmed and Sherlock nodded slightly. "I also need to be sure that whatever case you've been workin' the past week isn't gonna blow up in our faces."

He honestly wouldn't call it a 'case' so much as it had been a 'project', an experiment to understand reactions to a 'small' building's collapse. But Gregson had been at Ground Zero, so he shouldn't cause upset by telling the man exactly what he'd done. 9/11 was a very sensitive topic and probably the only one that he refused to rile anyone about, especially Gregson for reasons that Sherlock wasn't sure enough to make much sense of.

"My whereabouts the last week have put us in no danger," he declared. His mind brought up pictures of burning Towers collapsing in on themselves and the horrid urgency to _find them_ and he gripped Watson tighter.

'We're okay,' her heartbeat told him as he felt it against his chest. 'We're okay. We're okay.'

"It has a slim chance of 'blowing up in our faces'," especially when it already had and that had been due to a miscalculation he thought he'd been rid of. "It is very unlikely that my actions have done much to warrant any type of backlash from other parties, so it is not there that our search begin."

Gregson was suspicious, but decided to let it go and Sherlock was glad of that. 9/11, especially now, wasn't something he felt up to discussing. "We'll probably know something by tomorrow. The fire was at your place pretty much at the same time it reached the other end, so I'm thinkin' that it started in the middle somewhere."

"Possibly," he conceded. "Though I will admit to being uncertain about how we ended up here when the last thing I recall is being at the scene," not that he was complaining, of course. Tiredness and fatigue pulled at him, whispering that it wouldn't be long until he was back in the darkness. He was rather loathe to move.

"Yeah, that tipped us off that you've been busy the past week. Figured you haven't been sleeping and bein' horizontal dragged you right under."

A considerate way to say he'd passed out, but true all the same.

"Hey," Gregson's voice gentled and he could tell that there was possibly a sympathetic – nay, _pitying_ – look on the man's face, possibly also an unconscious one. He would rather not see it, thank you, so he kept his gaze trained on Watson's hair. "I'm sorry about your place. You ever need anything, I'll see what I can do. And you can stay with me if this really was something unrelated to the work you two do."

"And if it wasn't?" he needled, narrowing his eyes as he slid them to where Gregson sat outside his purview. "Would that offer still stand? I'm sure we would understand your withdrawing, especially since your and Bell's lives would be in danger right alongside ours."

"Well, considerin' me and Bell as your security detail regardless, take a raincheck. And you should maybe remember that our lives have always been in danger before we met you."

He didn't need the reminder that Gregson had been at Ground Zero. Chances were high that it was a fact he would never forget.

They fell into a silence that Sherlock spent breathing almost in unison with Watson. Almost, of course, because he wasn't sure that he wanted to sleep again just yet.

It took a moment for him to realize that Watson – even in spite of a deep sleep – only moved when _he_ moved her. And her heart was slow and consistent, exactly the same as her breathing.

He'd spent many an hour observing her every movement, memorizing her breathing's every hitch, and everything he started analyzing made him sharpen in alertness because Watson was deviating from her natural rhythms.

"Watson?" he moved up and bent over her to confirm what he already knew.

She wasn't naturally insensate, due to an outside inhibitor.

"We had to keep her under," Gregson's voice was heavy with worry and regret, his expression mixing that with a haunted look as Sherlock whipped his head around to demand an explanation. "When you were out for the count, we were kinda stuck with lookin' out for her and she tried to get inside the house once before we sedated her the first time. I had to give her the next two doses because she tried to leave the room and the last time was because we couldn't yet give her a chance to put herself in more danger. We'll stop dousing her tomorrow." He buried his face in his hands for a long moment before scrubbing it and leaning back in the chair with a deep sigh. "What in the world is so important that she would actually risk her life just to retrieve it?"

"Was," he quietly corrected. "What _was_ so important. I don't know the answer, but it was in her room. In a pouch in her bed table. I never saw it and I never asked, because it just seemed like something one shouldn't poke his nose in. Especially since I hadn't thought about it in a long time. Only remembered last night at the fire."

"Then I guess we're all in the dark," Gregson watched Watson sleep for a long silent moment. "Think she's gonna be okay?"

"Only time will tell, I suppose," he followed his gaze down to his partner, himself uncertain.

Maybe in a few days, he would ask. Perhaps it would help to talk about it like she had done many times in the reverse with him.

For now, though, he lay back down and adjusted his grip on her as the lack of sleep captured him again, its grip relentless as the world fell away around him.

* * *

PART FOUR

* * *

As it turned out, the fire really had been ignited by faulty wiring and the owners of that abode had more than once tried telling someone about it to no avail.

There were already noises about legal action and Sherlock may or may not have put his resources on the trail of the alleged perpetrators, because there was always a trail giving red flags long before the initial disaster. There were no casualties or fatalities and two of the units had their occupants off on one last summer hurrah of holiday. Another unit's occupants had gone to deal with a family emergency out of town.

Of the remaining three, his and Watson's Brownstone was really the only one unoccupied at the time the fire broke out.

A teenager in one of the other units had been taking a nap after having completed a sports competition and had been awoken by the smoke. The unit next to that one was already on fire by the time the four occupants realized anything was amiss.

A call to Emergency Services had alerted members of the 11th Precinct, who in turn had alerted others as well as Gregson and Bell. Both had arrived after Watson and Gregson more or less charged in from there.

The Brownstone that Sherlock and Watson had occupied was a loss, but he'd had several offers from clients and colleagues who had become aware of their situation and all of them – bafflingly enough – were adamant that the Brownstone be rebuilt as close to the original as they could get.

He'd even received a number of missives from Everyone, who were willing to assist as much as they were able and it had actually confirmed a long held suspicion that a few of their number either had been or was currently experiencing similar circumstances and felt some empathy or sympathy for them. At least one was of Asian ancestry and felt a sort of kinship with Watson, while a different one hid behind the guise of paying back a non-existent favor.

Sherlock wasn't completely certain why everyone was fixated on fixing their home, but he did admit – if only to himself – that none of the other properties available to them would feel even remotely like somewhere to belong.

Wouldn't feel right.

He didn't want to decide anything without discussing things with Watson, who – hopefully – would be living there, too, but since Gregson stopped keeping her asleep…

It was probably a horrible thought to have, but, sometimes, he wished she was still asleep.

He'd been in the middle of a rather large sandwich platter when she'd first exhibited signs of consciousness, Gregson on the other bed as Bell gave Sherlock looks of both amusement and slight concern at the degree of ferocity with which he was using to attack the sandwiches.

Gregson had been propped up against the headboard of the extra bed with reports scattered all around him when Watson had started moving. Almost immediately, all three of them knew that Watson's lost pouch had held something so very irreplaceable that she was profoundly affected right down to her very soul.

Her gaze was empty, her expression was hollow and she was completely resistant to anything and everything they could try to make her respond to.

Several times, Sherlock had announced to the room tha he was leaving to meet a new drug dealer specializing in flammable sea urchins; that he was going to walk off the roof because Moriarty had paid him a visit for tea and threatened Mycroft's life if he didn't; he and Bell were going undercover as an engaged pair; he was opening up a tea shop at Everest Base Camp; and, after robbing several casinos on the Las Vegas Strip, he was going to buy China, rename three Provinces in her honor, dismantle the entire Great Wall and frame North Korea for a bank heist smokescreen to distract from a plot to assassinate a young Royal's pet goat.

Not.

A.

 _Twitch_.

At the very least, he'd expected a response to the one about his sacrifice for Mycroft's safety, because the both of them well knew that the only one who was going to be walked off a roof was Mycroft himself.

It was very concerning that she hadn't leapt on the one about a drug dealer who didn't even exist. Just the idea of a drug dealer should've had her up in arms, yet she just sat there.

She'd completely withdrawn into herself and he was utterly helpless to do a bloody thing about it.

Bell had suggested to let her family spend time with her and Sherlock reached out to her family to make arrangements for her to stay. The newest addition to the family had demanded some of her own 'sister' time and Bell's Chantal had offered to host the pair for a girls' night right after the Watsons had their time.

As for Sherlock, Gregson offered his floor again and Sherlock was agreeing almost without thinking. Bell had 'been in the neighborhood' the first night and had yet to leave, not that Sherlock had any mind to bring it up.

It was a week and one half since the single collapse and Sherlock hadn't slept since that first night in the hotel. Every time he'd thought about it, he'd remember an icy chill and three absences and a pair of collapses and be wide awake all night.

He wanted to have some space to himself, but just couldn't bring himself to take cases outside the Precinct. He couldn't bring himself to take cases at all with Watson's… uncharacteristic solemnness.

So, he'd contented himself with cold cases in Gregson's living room, office and the department conference room.

This night saw him alone in the Captain's house, the clock telling how far into the night it was.

There hadn't been much going on, but his temporary flatmates were going to be home a bit later and that he shouldn't wait up.

He wasn't sure why he should wait at all, but he'd already greeted them during his self-induced insomnia so perhaps they expected it at this juncture.

Humans had patterns and routines and they'd evidently fallen into one a bit accidently, the three of them.

Again, not that he had any mind on it.

He scowled at the file and tossed it on the coffee table with a huff. What he did mind was all the files not making much sense. Did these people even know how to fill out paperwork?

At least his compatriots at the 11th Precinct knew enough to be interesting or slightly entertaining. The sorry excuse for police officers at whatever District these files originated from would do well to study at the 11th so to at least know a complete sentence when it showed up!

If only it were ages ago so he could write a scathing letter to the persons in charge without getting ensnared in some nonsensical territorial dispute.

Obviously, nothing was going to work that night and he threw himself on his sleeping bag for lack of anything else to do.

He lay there in perfect darkness, clicking his torch on and off.

The electricity was at his disposal, of course, but a good challenge helped keep his wits about him, so he'd been working by torchlight as long as the other pair were out. That way, he could work without questions.

Unspoken as they good-naturedly worked with their own torches, but questions nonetheless.

He clicked the button again.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

It was actually a rather rhythmic metronome…

He woke up with a snort, morning light drifting in through the windows.

'Bollocks,' he frowned at the room. 'Must've accidently fallen asleep.'

The two sleeping bags on either side of him hadn't been touched, which meant that Gregson and Bell hadn't returned home last night.

He retrieved his mobile and frowned at the lack of messages.

It was 8.30 a.m.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned as he levered himself up and stretched. Bouncing to his feet, he made his way to the kitchen and to the tea kettle as he made the coffee for the Americans. It made him miss Watson that much more.

He'd been incredibly lucky to have a flatmate already conditioned to tea and he'd never missed Chinese tea more. He liked to think Watson was now partial to the British blends, not that he was opposed to her heritage. Frankly, the more exposed to the heaven in a cup, the more demand it would bring.

It was neither here nor there, so he simply allowed himself a leisurely start up as the tea got ready.

He was taking his first sip when something started niggling at him, an icy fingertip moving down the back of his neck as his eyes traced back to the still made sleeping bags. His mobile was in his hand and his fingers were flying across the screen. 'Watson, were are you?'

 _'Making my way to Manhattan. Some sort of accident at the Towers. Maybe I'll be able to help.'_

Accident at the Towers?

He frowned and pulled up a news report, almost inhaling his tea as he got a look at the first images coming in.

One of the Twin Towers was on fire, a rather substantial hole ripped through it. Smoke was rolling over the top of the Tower, but he could tell that this couldn't be accidental.

The fire was all over the point of impact and it was too big for anything less than wildfire level efforts. If a plane had hit the bloody thing, it was a large one with the amount of fire and smoke being generated.

And if a plane that large had hit the Tower, it was no accident.

'Please be advised: Not an Accident,' he sent the text and took another mouthful of tea as he flicked on the telly so he could get a broader glimpse of what was happening without his usual methods of doing such.

His mobile buzzed – the ringer off to keep from disturbing the sleep of two highly conditioned individuals to react before thinking – and he glanced at it.

 _'Thanks for the head's up, but nothin' we can do about that,'_ Marcus' response flitted across the screen.

He realized he'd sent the text to Watson, Bell and Gregson. It was something of a muscle memory reflex, at this point.

 _'Did Joan head over?'_ Gregson asked a moment later. _'We're en route.'_

His thoughts stilled, eyes unable to move from the words that caught them.

 _'We're en route.'_

That could only mean that Gregson and Bell were on their way to reach Watson, who had possibly already reached the stricken Tower.

Which also meant that his closest colleagues were in the proverbial Hot Zone and where was he? Lounging in a kitchen as events unfolded.

A flare of urgency had him draining the rest of his cup before readying to go out to join them.

He refused to stay on the sideline as facts poured in and he damned well knew that pure, unadulterated facts only existed at the point of origin. That way, he didn't have to wade through other – possibly unintentional – interpretations as stories and rumors inevitably began to spread.

He was in a cab on the way to Manhattan when the radio announced the crash of the second plane into the second Tower.

It was entirely possible that he'd leapt from the moving vehicle, because he was now running as fast as he could toward the Towers. While alarm, urgency and adrenalin mixed with the sudden onslaught of panic in his being, determination to reach the others colored his every move as his mind brought up images of the Plaza, marking where his friends would likely be, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Towers went down.

He focused everything on running as fast as he could, racing down empty streets and alleys, the world unnaturally silent as he passed. He was on the Brooklyn Bridge and saw his first real life glimpse of the two Towers pouring smoke into the clear blue sky.

He had to reach them before the second Tower collapsed, taking scores of people with it who were trapped above the impact zone.

Firefighters were doubtless making their way up the stairs still, but the New York Police Department could very well be inside, too. And Watson might have watched this all unfold from the Triage set up in Building Seven before deciding she would better find something to do from on-site and could very well be on her way up the stairs with Bell and Gregson and he had to get there to reach her so that he would help her out before the building collapsed.

He would get them out or perish right alongside them trying, because he didn't feel as alone with them. He felt stronger with them and better and he was going to reach them or die trying, because he couldn't do it.

He couldn't see himself surviving their deaths, because the house would be too empty.

Empty, yet full of memories that would stick themselves to his mind's walls and torture him with them when he least expected it. And the station and a Brownstone that he wouldn't live in without that familiar presence always nearby, the familiar presence that watched over him when he didn't deserve it, the very same presence that he would look for in every passing female of Chinese descent as his stomach would broil at the thought of Asian cuisine.

He was alone on the streets as he made his way over the bridge, on his way to Lower Manhattan, his thoughts blank as his memories pulled up one picture after another: Watson making tea in the kitchen; Bell providing stake-out snacks and hiding pleased smiles at their enjoyment; Gregson lurking in doorways with his cup of coffee as he surveyed his domain – either at the Precinct, his home or the late Brownstone -; the friendly – comforting? – banter he knew what to do with, the offers of support and assistance he didn't; always knowing who he could go to for silent company, advice or even a tuned out ear should the urge to ramble about the most obscure of things overtake him. They wouldn't even have to be listening, just someone to be present was enough.

What would he be without them?

A shell of what he had been, of what he was.

Yes, Alfredo and Hudson and others he and Watson had collected over the years were relatively safe, but it all came down to three.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

But there was the terrible knowledge that, should even one be lost, 'okay' would most assuredly be a very distant memory.

He took as many shortcuts as he could remember and didn't give a passing thought as to where everyone had gone as he turned down one empty street after another.

"Watson!" he called as he got closer and closer to the foot of the Towers. "Bell! Gregson!"

But no one answered back as he suddenly looked up and knew time had run out.

The second Tower – the one hit second and the designated 2 WTC – was falling in on itself and he watched, motionless, as it began to fall almost slowly at first. Then faster and he dimly realized that _he had to move_.

The cloud overtook him came with winds so strong that he was picked up and tossed like a child's plaything. It was thick and dark and he couldn't breathe – couldn't see anything in front of him.

 _"Holmes."_

It lasted ages, centuries, choking him and his every thought as he kept trying to move, but his limbs refused to obey.

 _"Holmes?"_

There was something heavy, something holding him down and panic flared as he tried to get it off by any way he could.

 _"Holmes!"_

He couldn't call out for help as dust flew into his mouth and nose and lungs with every breath he took –

 _"Hey!"_

\- and he was scared that the help he sought wouldn't come as he called and coughed and the darkness went on and on and the weight wouldn't move no matter how much he struggled.

He couldn't tell if he was completely still, but it almost felt – at one point – as if he was floating before he was being dragged back to earth on something soft and the jolt dislodged the weight and he bolted upright.

"Hey," a hand was squeezing his arm. "Hey, man. It's okay. We're okay."

Sherlock stared at the familiar face watching him with concern before a beam of light cutting through the darkness drew his attention to his other side.

"Okay, now?" Gregson eyed him as he stared. "That was some nightmare."

Nightmare.

Nightmare?

That's – that's really all it was?

He looked back at Bell, who was sitting back on his heels, and the last thing he'd remembered was being overcome by the first collapse. He'd had no idea where his friends had been and the panic started building again.

"We're okay," Bell squeezed his arm and Gregson dropped a hand on his shoulder and they were okay.

They were safe and okay and with him and they were okay.

'We're okay,' someone and yet no one told him and he didn't even make it to the sink before he was sullying the Captain's floor with what remained in his stomach.

He was shaking and he thought he was talking, but he couldn't hear much beyond his racing heart and ' _We're okay'_ echoing in his ears.

A hand was coaxing him up and a strong arm was guiding him, taking the weight that his legs didn't want to support.

He was put in the tub and sat under the warm shower spray and he vaguely noted the harsh gasps and ragged sobs echoing around him, but he couldn't concentrate on their source as he choked on the memory of dust that slowly floated down the drain.

Eventually, he looked down and realized he was still in clothes he'd had delivered yesterday by Ms. Hudson, who had taken it upon herself to do the clothes shopping both he and Watson couldn't do.

He numbly took off the sodden clothes and left them in the tub as he washed the memory dust away.

He finished and found dry clothes waiting for him on the sink with warmed towels on the pile and it was obvious they'd been put in the drier. What wasn't obvious was how long he'd been in the loo and a peek outside showed no difference in the light.

He crept from the loo as reality trickled back into his thoughts, embarrassment pushing him against the walls as he moved back to the living room like a naughty child wary of waking the authorities sleeping nearby.

It was even more ridiculous since he'd never quite cared when he _had_ been sneaking around corridors as a child, but he was no longer a child which made his childish behavior that much more… regrettable?

The floor in the kitchen was clean and scented with lemon when he crept over to peer around the door.

Bell and Gregson were at the table with steaming cups in front of them, another sitting on the counter and obviously his.

Something must have caught their attention, because they suddenly looked over and he was suddenly aware of how ridiculous he looked. Straightened, he locked his eyes on the cup and moved toward it.

Tea, he realized as he brought the cup up to sip. Tea made the way he preferred.

"You okay, now?" Bell sounded uncertain as they no doubt watched him from the table.

He took a few more sips before feeling confident enough to face them. "Captain," his eyes glanced back toward the recently cleaned spot. "My sincerest apologies for my earlier… transgression."

"You mean freakin' the hell out after a nightmare?" Bell smiled slightly. "Not the first to get one of those and you won't be the last."

"Also not the first guy that I've had lose their dinner in my kitchen," Gregson added with a tilt of his head.

"But that dream must've been somethin' else," Bell frowned. "You… want to talk?"

"Not particularly, no," he swallowed hard and sipped his tea. "One session of getting ill a night, I'm afraid."

They nodded and returned to their cups after lingering glances.

The three of them just stayed in their positions as they drank their drinks for long silent minutes.

"Any word on Watson?" Sherlock eventually broke the silence, no longer wanting to remember the collapse he'd dreamed himself into. Well, he couldn't not remember, it was him after all, but he wanted to at least attempt to distract himself with something else.

"Did get in touch with her brother, Oren," Bell rubbed his eyes. "He thinks he knows what the problem is, or at least suspects, but it ain't somethin' he feels comfortable tellin' us. If we're gonna find out real answers," he looked at the both of them, "it'll have to be from Joan."

"Fair enough," Gregson nodded. "But she doin' okay? None of us could get anything out of her."

"Tough to say, really," he shook his head, "but he says to just give her a few more days before she'll start talking and then we can ask."

"Very well," Sherlock nodded. "In a few days, we will have at least some idea of… of how to go about helping Watson with her loss. If… if that's at all possible."

"Hey," Marcus frowned at him. "If there's a way, we'll find it. Alright? I mean, yeah, it probably ain't gonna be somethin' we can replace, but we can at least remind her that she ain't by herself. She's got friends and family and we're here for her and we'll understand when she wants to talk."

Sherlock was reminded again of the difference between Britons and Americans: the willingness of the latter to talk about feelings. Feelings and emotions and sentiment, it appeared to be an American characteristic that he simply couldn't find it within himself to easily mimic.

Here Marcus and Gregson were, articulating thoughts so readily, while he struggled to even come up with a thought to say that didn't clog his throat.

He finished his tea as the others finished their own drinks and he took the cups to wash as they got ready to sleep.

The three of them reconvened at their designated sleeping bags and climbed in as Gregson flipped the light switch to plunge them back into darkness.

Sherlock lay on his back as the other two remained just as awake, rustling on either side indicating restless shifting – possibly already giving the illusion that they were settling down.

They eventually quieted, but were both still awake.

Obviously waiting for him to fall asleep and return to the dream he'd woken from. "I can find a place elsewhere to sleep, if you'd like," he quietly offered. "Brought this on myself, I suspect."

"The only place you'll be sleeping," Gregson was audibly scowling, "is right here in this house so we can keep an eye on you."

"And how the hell do you come up with nightmares bein' your fault?" Marcus chimed in with his own frown. "Ya can't force yourself to have nightmares."

One could, technically – such as a highly imaginative individual willingly putting oneself on a 'ghost tour' and being at the mercy of one's own imaginings for nights afterward -, but that was neither here nor there.

"A byproduct of an experiment, I'm afraid," he explained.

"The hell kind of experiment was that?" Marcus questioned. "Seemed like torture from where I was standin'."

"Was this experiment done before or after the fire?" Gregson wanted to know.

"Oh, well before, I assure you," he responded immediately. "A personal bit, purely for personal curiosity."

"And what, pray tell, started this curiosity?"

He opened his mouth and blinked as he was hit with a thought.

Before, when he was actually doing the experiment, he hadn't thought anything of turning 9/11 into little more than a research experiment as a way to study – essentially – New York as presented on 9/11.

Now, after having experienced some facsimile of the event in question, turning something so… so undefinable into what basically amounted as the means to an end…

Just the premise of someone doing so was enough to make his blood boil. Bad enough that _he_ had basically become the villain.

It was one thing to study 9/11 after the fact, purely for the simple reason that there is still a large amount of data generated as a result and only a fool would turn a completely blind eye to that.

Various federal agencies, in fact, have studied 9/11 for the purpose of preventing such a tragedy to happen again. Responders were taking their experiences and applying them elsewhere, as the human response was studied in a manner reminiscent – and yet superior to – other such events from the last thousand years or so.

All of that was expected, because everything in history was more or less studied the same way and it would be dereliction of duty had 9/11 simply been swept under the rug in the terms of having it be entirely off-limits.

It, however, was another thing entirely when using 9/11 to create something seemingly entirely unfeeling and distant and – to put it simply – 'a bit not good'. Just because _he_ wholeheartedly tossed himself into the project didn't mean two native New York citizens – one of whom had actually _been_ at Ground Zero when 9/11 was taking place – would understand.

"Well?" Marcus prompted. "Never been this quiet before since I met you. So, it's either really difficult to explain or it's somethin' the rest of us non-Sherlock Holmes folks ain't gonna like."

"It's the latter," Gregson answered, tone confident. "For this one, 'difficult to explain' never stopped him from tryin' before."

"Perhaps," Sherlock shrugged. "And knowing that, your curiosity should be appeased to prevent yourselves from being uncomfortable."

"Holmes," Gregson sighed in exasperation, "as grateful as I am about you trying to spare our feelings, we damn near broke the door down tryin' to get in here, because we thought you were bein' tortured to within an inch of your life. _I_ want to know what kind of experiment you thought you could handle, because it doesn't sound like it went well."

"I want to know, too," Marcus added. "I was ready to start shootin' almost as soon as we got in and there you were, flashlight on and you gettin' tangled in the blankets. Had to jolt you awake by droppin' you back on the sleeping bag and I can't imagine what kind of hell you were dreamin' about. Don't think I'll ever be forgettin' any of it."

He didn't know what image he'd presented to them, but he couldn't help likening it to what one might see from an addict going through withdrawal.

It made him feel ill again and he hesitated for a moment before speaking. "It wasn't substance, I know better," because of the men he was currently rooming with, because of Alfredo who had worked so hard on him, because of Watson. Especially because of Watson. "But… if you – you truly do want to know. It truly began when the building collapsed on the bombing case. I… I noted the looks of – of panic on the faces around me and… I couldn't understand the depth, the degree. Not… not until Watson spoke of her experiences at what remained of the World Trade Center and…"

"And you started researching everything you could find," Gregson supplied.

"I – yes. I wanted to understand the reactions I had observed and there was only one way to – to truly do that. Except. It wasn't possible to – to actually experience 9/11 in the full sense, but I could attempt to do so. I first needed to understand what the Towers had been and looked through the history and then I went through every eyewitness testimony, oral history and recollection I could find, when I believed that I was sufficiently ready to proceed. Every word, picture, and video was meticulously studied and I began to build New York City in my mind. And then… Then I made a mistake when I fell asleep."

"And you lost control," Marcus concluded. "You wanted everything to happen the way _you_ wanted, because you had some control over everything. That's why you decided to make it an experiment. And 'experiment' kinda implies some kinda 'control'."

"Falling asleep was simply one aspect of that mistake," he quietly confirmed, fisting his hands in the blankets beneath him. "Something I will have to retain for the future."

"And the other part of your mistake?" Gregson just as quietly asked. "What, you underestimated the scale of it?"

"Not the scale, no," he moved his gaze from one side of the ceiling to the other as he finally admitted to himself: "But my response to it."

When he'd been trapped in the hell of his own making the first time, he'd been one of thousands on the street watching in helpless disbelief as first one plane, then the other, had struck the Towers. He'd been unable to tear his gaze away even as the first bodies began to fall, thinking almost absently that the medical professionals were going to have a hell of a time putting them back together.

An image of Watson had suddenly flashed in his mind and his heart had dropped to his stomach as he'd realized that he had told Watson to meet just a block from the Plaza. She was in the line of danger and he had to get to her.

It was only after he'd managed to get past the outermost barricade when he spied a familiar face from the 11th, who'd then told him that Gregson and Bell were already at the Towers.

From there, all he could think about was what his life would be like without Watson and Gregson and Bell and his hypothetical future without them just pushed him to run faster. Panic had been all consuming and he just _couldn't_ lose the three closes to him – his inner circle.

He trusted no one else – couldn't trust anyone else – and their loss would drive him further than not even Moriarty had managed to do.

He couldn't bear to recall how that nightmare ended, but the feelings and emotions had remained.

"I did come at the… experiment or project as a scientist," he winced slightly, but it was true. "I hadn't realized what else I had retained until… I was put in a situation where I was at the mercy of the… the fears I hadn't realized I possessed."

They fell into silence for long moments – perhaps an hour – and Sherlock felt uncertainty skitter over him as they stayed silent.

Anger would've been a better response.

"I get it," Marcus' quiet words finally cut through the darkness. "You wanted to get a taste of the action without actually knowin' how you'd feel once you got that taste. You tried to come at it like you always do, but you forgot that you're as human as the rest of us. It's all academic 'til you're actually in that situation and it's scared you to levels even you don't know what to do with. Can't say it hasn't happened to other people, so I should probably let you know that it's actually pretty normal to think you can handle somethin' that'll kick your ass later. Same thing happened to me."

"I'm not detecting anger or disappointment," he blurted, anxiety as possibly having upset them boiling over into words as his blankets took the brunt of it through clenched fingers.

"Should we be angry or disappointed?" Gregson mused. "Said you wanted to understand, right? Well, now, you do, though I can't figure out why the hell _anyone_ would want to understand what it was like. You just have a way of doin' things and maybe there was some part of you that wanted to be as distant from your project as you could get. That's why you designed it to be a project that you could control. Nothin' wrong with that. But maybe another part of you thought that you should feel helpless, like so many of us did, for the full effect. So, maybe it was a success, but you weren't expecting it to go the way it did. Damn sure probably didn't expect to be so affected by it like you have been. That's what a scientist does, right? Like a Detective, you have to go off the information, interview witnesses, analyze evidence, check out the crime scene. You start to have a theory and you work on that theory until either it fits or a different theory comes out. You look at the victim and try to put yourself in that individual's place to try to understand, but you need the experience they had before things start making sense in a way that only an insider could get. The problem comes when you actually find yourself in a similar position and it affects you more than you had ever imagined. More than you had ever thought possible. So… Maybe you were lookin' at this like a Detective, but in a non-traditional way like a Consulting Detective."

It hadn't actually occurred to him in that manner, but it was a relief to him that he hadn't upset the Captain – a person he respected more than his own family.

"At least you did it 'cause you wanted to understand," Marcus eventually added. "You might not know this, but I was a kid who wanted to do somethin' with his life. So, I became a cop. Trained and studied and remembered all the others who actually got to be at Ground Zero and told myself that I would be on the front line should there be a next time. No more sittin' on the side for this cop, that's what I always believed. I heard the stories about 9/11," he shifted slightly, but not quite uncomfortably – something Sherlock was kind of surprised to find.

9/11 wasn't something easily discussed – possibly even amongst those who studied it – and he'd presumed this entire discussion would at best get him transferred, at worst get him shot.

Possibly the other way around.

But perhaps the darkness provided a comfort all its own, secrets whispered in an unspoken agreement that the words went no further than this night.

"Of those stories," Marcus went on, "I guess the one that stuck was about this one guy who was assigned to three other guys at the Trade Center. Didn't really think a lot when I heard about it, but after the first collapse, they lost contact with each other. Couldn't reach the others on the radio, not even after the second collapse. So, he thought he was the only one who made it out, until a couple days later when he ran into one of 'em. Turns out, they were the only two of that team that made it. The other guy thought he was the last, too, because the radio stayed silent and he wasn't sure what was going on. What made it worse was that the other guy was tight with the ones that didn't make it and it hit him more despite knownin' the first guy was okay. Messed him up a lot. Ain't sure what happened to that one, but the guy I heard the story from works in Arizona, now. A security guard. Anyway, I'd heard that story and it stayed with me and… Guess I never really realized that until the building collapsed over a week ago."

Looking back on the incident now, Marcus' reaction now made a macabre sense. It also explained his own panic feeding from his. No wonder hearing a hark back to 9/11 generated such a response. The story he'd heard had more or less come to life right in front of his very eyes. And this time, it was Marcus now in the shoes he'd all but coveted during the course of his career.

"Holmes, you said that it was all a theory o you under a controlled set of circumstances until you fell asleep and let the nightmare hit you like you were actually there. I know the same feelin', because I guess you could say that I did the same thing. It was a theory, one that we believed we could handle until it literally blew up almost right in our faces. You'n'me? We found out the hard way that we couldn't actually handle it. Sometimes, it just shows you how reality actually works: without research or control and the rest of us have to just go with it – kinda like 9/11. You got experience on the Force and think you got what it takes to handle somethin' that big. Then it actually happens and you're just as green as the Rookie you were kiddin' the day before."

"Astute parallel," Sherlock frowned in thought.

He had, of course, come across the same sentiment in a few places that basically did say more or less the same thing.

To paraphrase: The United States had lived under the illusion that it was untouchable, an illusion so deftly shattered on September morning when despicable forces targeted the belly of the giant that America had so erroneously believed itself to be.

The theory: America was safe.

The reality: It was vulnerable.

The wake-up call: Three planes driven into buildings, one into a field.

It was always the same. One goes about life thinking he could handle everything thrown at him. Then something – a nightmare, a silent radio – rips that confidence to shreds and he now has to live with a reality he had never signed up for.

In his and Marcus' cases, however, the reality that hit them as thoroughly as those planes hit the Towers hadn't physically changed their present. But now that this reality had happened to them, they could no longer see 9/11 New York the same way again. Not with a new understanding of what had been lost.

Like a child that had gone through an experience that made them realize how naïve they had been.

Or simply one of any age that did the same.

Reality was full of illusions, yet, perhaps that was exactly a way to deal with reality.

People built illusions around themselves as a defense mechanism against reality and there were times, such as 9/11, where those illusions were detrimental to the greater good. However, other illusions were helpful to certain degrees and others still had the peculiar habit of becoming reality itself.

Yet another fascinating thought to be boxed away for a later moment as Gregson quietly began to speak.

"You've got a point on that," he agreed. "Especially with Rookies who think they know what the real job is like. Holmes was only being Holmes and that backfired on him the same way. Well, his version of the 'same way'. What I don't get, however, is why the both of you decided to fixate on 9/11. Up to that point, I thought I was a seasoned Detective. But no. I came out of that feelin' as shaky as a Rookie and it wasn't until later that I realized that 9/11 didn't care what kind of experience you had. Everyone felt the same way. I knew guys in the Fire Department that lost guys and…" he was silent for a long moment. "9/11 was one thing and losing guys just added onto that, but they might as well have been civilians for all the good their training did them. You don't just get over that in a matter of hours. There are guys still in therapy for what they went through over there, guys who still can't wrap their heads around the fact that they couldn't have done a thing whether they had the training or not.

"And that's what I don't get about people who think they could've done a better job. You know, I'm not sure they would've done anything differently should they have actually done something or been in the position to do so. And then there are the ones who say that they wish they had been there on 9/11 or witnessed something like it. Why?" he asked simply and plaintively. "Why do you want to know what it was like? Why do you want to put yourself in that position? Because, at the end of the day, you don't want to know. You don't want to hear what I heard. Saw what I saw. Been through what I been through. I can promise you, you want to stay as far away as you can from 9/11. I get that people don't want to forget and, on some level, I guess I can appreciate that. But I ain't the one in danger of forgetting. And neither is any number of people who got out. We have to live with 9/11 _for the rest of our lives._ I wouldn't wish that on anybody – maybe not even Moriarty -, so I don't understand why you or anybody else want to have been there.

"Sometimes, I don't even understand why anyone would want to remember any of it at all. But I can't decide for other people how to feel or what to think about 9/11, because I know that just because I was there doesn't mean that everyone was. I get the feelin' that it wouldn't matter, anyway, because I had the experience. You two didn't. Speakin' from experience is a real thing, somethin' I can't force people to actually have – short of flying a plane into a tower myself. There are times I actually look at someone who I know wasn't there and I think about how lucky they are that they didn't go through the same hell. Then I look at others and wonder how it feels to be them, living their lives without this experience. I think about the people who say they never want to forget and I want to show them my experiences and ask them if they want to remember all of that and why. I can't think of a single reason, except that they weren't there. Then I think about people like Marcus, who have such a bright future ahead of them, and the people like Sherlock, who have come so far from their struggles. Maybe it's for the best that I experienced 9/11 from right in the middle of it, because others wouldn't have to. No one – of _any_ experience level – should have to go through that.

"There's not a lot I can do about that, but I think you should know that I went through it firsthand. I've seen what it's done to people, who think they could take that and I don't want the pair of you to make that same mistake. If you need to talk, my door is always open."

"Or," Sherlock slowly suggested, "you could offer your floor and keep the lights off. I find I rather like this arrangement."

"I'll take that into consideration," Gregson deadpanned, a slight note of amusement coloring his voice.

He nodded and they lapsed into silence.

"Holmes?" Marcus said after a long moment. "How're you holdin' up without your place? I mean, I know you don't know what personal space is, but the Brownstone was your… I dunno. And… guess I just thought you'd have another place all lined up. And I figured you'd have moved in by now."

"True enough," he acknowledged. The Brownstone was the American version of 221b, which he adored equally, but his sentiment toward the former was more fond considering the people he now had in his life. "While I do prefer my own… 'place' in which to process and practice my methods, and I… was very fond of the Brownstone and all that it offered, it was a place. Places can be rebuilt, memories are permanent and I have quite a few of them squirreled away. I am 'holding up' rather well. Thank you for asking," he belatedly remembered to add.

He felt his fingers twitching on his leg as no response was forthcoming.

"What?" he finally blurted. "If there's something you wish to say, then by all means," he waved a hand through the darkness. "I am at your disposal."

"Might not be anything," Gregson slowly answered, "but… Somethin' else happened that you're not telling us."

"Whatever do you mean?" he frowned, casting his memory back to try to make sense of that statement. "I've made no such omission."

"No," Marcus added with his own thoughtful tone. "He's right. We know you, Holmes, and something about all this ain't addin' up."

"I still fail to see the point."

"Look," Gregson shifted slightly. "9/11 was traumatic, sure. Honestly, I'm not sure you would've been that affected based on your history and experiences. You've seen and done a lot of things, so I wonder how you really would've handled 9/11. That said, I'm not sure the mass murder would've fazed you."

"And you said you did research, right?" Marcus added. "About the Towers? You said places can be rebuilt – I guess I'd agree -, but you didn't have the same kind of … tie to them that we did."

"Also true enough," he narrowed his eyes, still not sure of their point.

"Though I'm sure you developed some kind of attachment to them, all the same," Gregson told him. "Nothin' unusual about that, but I think the point we're tryin' to make, here, is that it wasn't the mass murder of thousands of people or the Towers that sent you into a tailspin. It had to be somethin' else."

He was right. They both were, but Sherlock couldn't find the words to explain.

How could he explain that the realization of potential support system loss kept him awake at night?

He couldn't lose Watson – that realization had come hard and swift upon finding out that she'd been kidnapped -, but he'd relatively recently came to the conclusion that losing Marcus and Gregson would be just as damaging to him and whatever balance he had.

He'd given up trying to explain his attachment to both even to himself, so how could he explain to them?

And never mind the fact that he still didn't know what to think about it.

It simply was and he'd long realized that there were things that simply refused to be deduced and classified, but this particular thing wasn't as grating as others were and it had amazed him how easily he'd accepted that.

He wasn't quite certain if he should say something for fear of making the atmosphere awkward and uncomfortable – not usually a problem, but somehow was this time -, but, for some reason, he just felt like he needed to … put something out there. To offer something in return for earlier in the evening.

"Perhaps your instincts prove correct," he offered somewhat meekly. "It is not the quantity of people that bothers me, but the quality of few. The problem with dreams is that reality as you actually know it doesn't exist. Something that you know to be impossible no longer lingers within restrictions. Anything is acceptable in dreams, even things you know to be false. It does not stop them from being completely horrific." Well, mostly false considering where the Captain had been.

He shivered as a chill crept down his clothing and burrowed under the blankets despite the comfortable temperature of moments ago.

"We're okay," Marcus spoke after a long moment, no doubt coming to some conclusion that he's almost afraid to speculate on. "We're okay, you know."

"'course, we're okay," Gregson added, an unidentifiable tone in his voice. "Why wouldn't we be?"

'We're okay,' Sherlock mouthed to himself, the reminder – the mantra – taking root in his chest as he remembered two other voices joining in. 'We're okay.'

"I have that nightmare, too," Marcus sounded a little closer as he rustled, the burst of noise dragging him into arms' length from Sherlock. "That's normal, you know. We're okay."

"As you keep telling me, yes," he voiced, the mantra whispering between his ribs and nestling down deep in the center of them, into the core of his very being.

"It's easy to forget that, sometimes," Gregson mused. "Nice to have a reminder, you know?"

A reminder. Yes.

Three voices.

Two words.

One voice.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

He allowed the mantra to encase him like a warm blanket that chased away the chill as a pressure on his arm zippered the blanket closed.

 **We're okay.**

 **We're okay.**

 _His eyes opened to utter devastation on a scale never truly seen from human hands._

 _Grey coated everything, several inches think, and the air was finally clear._

 _Though not for long._

 _The remaining Tower was seconds from its almost graceful plunge and a second dust cloud would be sure to follow._

 _He had to move._

 _He dragged himself up and ran._

 _Nothing else mattered, except running._

 _On and on, he ran, but he didn't even make it a mile before the remaining Tower started to fall._

 _An almost morbid curiosity made him slow and turn to watch the top of the Tower – and its antenna – slowly collapse in on itself, generating a vertical column of smoke in a display that was gracefully beautiful._

 _Strange how something so devastatingly horrifying could actually end up being one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen._

 _It was entrancing to watch as the last of the World Trade Center came crashing to the ground, the cloud racing toward him almost as his mind realized that standing there was a bad thing._

 _A hand yanked him to the side before he could even begin to run to safety, a weight slamming him into a niche already housing others as the cloud covered them._

 _Again, the darkness rolled on and on, the weight behind him and the grip on his other side anchoring him when he felt ready to fly apart at the never ending darkness, a silence so complete that he may as well have been deaf._

 _Eventually, light began to penetrate the darkness and it was just enough to begin making out features._

 _Features of the wall in front of him and the grey coated hair of the figure buried into his side._

 _Coughing from behind them revealed a smaller figure against the other's back, while the weight against his own lessened._

 _"Holmes," a gruff voice coughed in his ear. "I'm not running into another collapse zone to haul your ass out again."_

 _"Were you hit?" familiar hands ran over him as a third voice managed a laugh._

 _"Maybe if he was hit, he'd have sense not to do that again."_

 _Hands turned him around until his back was to the wall, Gregson, Bell and Watson – his friends, his family, his… everything he didn't even have words for – watching him with concern, amusement and a slight exasperation in their eyes. The loss of two City icons didn't seem to matter to them as they stood in grey lit silence._

 _They could've been the last four people in the world._

 _Sherlock stared at each of them in turned, before telling them, "The Twin Towers have come down."_

 _"Yeah," Gregson nodded. "You okay?"_

 _"Yes," he nodded back. "Yes. We're okay."_

 _"We're okay," Bell echoed, catching his gaze with a slight smile._

 _"We're okay," Watson squeezed both of their arms._

 _"We're okay," Gregson confirmed._

 _We're okay._

 _We're okay._

 _Sherlock threw his head back and laughed._

 ** _We're okay._**

* * *

End Parts Three and Four

* * *

Next Chapter: "That's what you lost in the Brownstone."


	4. Joan

AN: Thank you so much for making it this far!

We are at story's end and, I have to say, I'm actually really pleased with how all of this came out. The Muse constantly amazes.

Now, remember, this chapter has Parts Five and Six plus the Epilogue. Hopefully, the summary makes sense after this.

There are some things that might come across in a way that I was not intending, but I wanted to just point out that - while I do *not* support or condone terrorism - I understand that something as massive as 9/11 changes lives. Sometimes - as much as we might hate to admit -, it doesn't actually end up horribly.

That said, I sincerely hope you take something meaningful away from this.

Have a very Prosperous New Year,

HM.

* * *

Part Five: Joan

* * *

It hurt.

It hurt on a scale she'd never previously thought survivable.

How could anyone stand the – the empty, lost, _hollow_ feeling that ached with every passing day, hour, minute, second, heartbeat, breath she took?

For some reason, she had always – foolishly, it turns out – believed that the worst day of her life had been the very first patient she had ever lost or the last official patient that had ended her career. Or even the death of Andrew, something she'd believed would always prey on her conscious.

But she was wrong.

The worst day of her life was when she'd been summoned back to the Brownstone after running errands. The fire had only gotten more apparent and she'd been worried that Sherlock had come home early from whatever personal thing that had spooked him so badly that she was even more rarely out of his sight since whatever it is had begun. Relief had immediately swamped her when her frantic gaze locked on his figure surrounded by familiar faces from the 11th Precinct.

Until her eyes absently found where her room had been and she realized.

The very thing she had tried to prevent for so long.

The very things she had tried to protect for what seemed like half her life.

Gone.

All of it.

Up in flames and smoke, not unlike the circumstances in which one had been put in her possession to begin with. From the ruins of one sense of identity to the destruction of another.

She would laugh at the irony if she wasn't afraid of breaking down.

She knew that all of her friends were worried about her, she did. In a vague sense of numbness as she was shuffled from one location to another.

Sherlock and Marcus and Gregson were the faces she remembered, drifting along as the numb/empty/hollow feeling swept her past any awareness of her surroundings.

The Brownstone was gone.

That realization came a little later, of course.

That symbol of home that meant safety and so many other undefinable things.

It had connected her to Sherlock, then to something amazing that she'd all too willingly dove into headfirst.

It became a sense of identity for who she'd become and it was – as Sherlock had once said – her home. Her home and the most tangible connection to Sherlock and their shared work – shared _passion_ – that she could've ever imagined.

The connection to the most important people in her life had started at the Brownstone.

Sherlock.

Alfredo.

Ms. Hudson.

Mycroft, wherever he was.

Bell and Gregson.

Kitty, later on.

But Sherlock, Marcus and Gregson were the people she knew she could fall back on if she ever needed anything.

And she knew it was… childish, perhaps, but a part of her truly believed that objects and places… personified? Put into the physical world sentiments that she had no words for.

The Brownstone had become the third most important … thing in her possession and – and it was gone now.

That hurt, too, but nothing compared to the hollowness generated by the loss of the two most precious things she'd held onto for years above all else.

They'd brought her such comfort during the hardest moments of her life since – since.

She'd likened it to her security blanket and teddy bear and she felt incredibly alone and like the little girl she didn't remember being now that they were taken from her.

She was at a complete loss, slowly coming out of the numbed world that she had so readily taken refuge in and reality was crushing down on her.

Her family knew something was wrong, but only Oren knew something of her loss because they'd both gotten drunk after… and she'd told him a little of it, but not all. She wanted to keep as much of it as secretive as she could – something not easily done around the likes of Sherlock Holmes – and that meant keeping it all locked up inside.

Well, not entirely.

Sometimes, she'd found herself whispering to the pouch she kept them in, to the man whose memory at least one of the objects personified.

She'd never went looking for him after… that.

It was something she toyed with doing, but after a while realized that she didn't even know where to start.

He might've quit or transferred out.

Or something happened to him, but she never wanted to even entertain that possibility because it _was_ a possibility and she didn't want him to be gone, yet.

If he was still alive, there was the chance that they would meet again. Something she held onto just as tightly as her objects, so she could show him that she'd kept them safe.

That she still remembered and thought about him all the time, especially when she'd felt like she needed a friend. He'd done that for her before and she had always wondered – wished, hoped, prayed – that he would do so again one day.

But now, she couldn't help the fear that they _would_ meet again and one part was actually a direct result of living and working with Sherlock for so long. If there was one thing she'd learned, it was the fact that memories had a glow about them after so much time had passed until most of it ended up being a product of imagination and far different to reality.

Plus, people change. No reason to suspect otherwise in this case, either.

And, she no longer had either of the objects only the two of them really knew anything about. What would she even say to him after that?

It was something that haunted her every dream, but Oren had managed to help her like when he played the big brother when they were kids. It's why both of them constantly woke up pressed back to back, even when they got older.

'So, we can watch each other's backs from the monsters,' he'd told her with seriousness that she just as easily accepted and returned. 'It's what big brothers do. And it'll be up to you to tell me if any of them are trying to sneak up on us.'

Oren had said those words after – after she'd been rotated out. He'd showed up at her apartment a few days after he'd gotten back from a trip overseas and she'd simply let him in, the two of them claiming their usual places and sleeping for the first time in what had felt like years at that point.

Oren hadn't slept on the other side of the bed until she – feeling completely numb and in desperate need of a – a hug or a teddy bear or something – showed up at his bedroom door at their mother's house. His family was completely understanding about him wanting to look after her and he let her in with that solemn look on his face.

"Come on," he patted her usual place with a hand. "I'll take the other side. So we can watch each other's backs from the monsters, right?"

"Thank you," she whispered, buried down and pressed up against her big brother.

"It's what big brothers do," he whispered back. Then, "I'm sorry about what you lost."

He didn't know the full story or the extent, but he knew enough.

She simply squeezed her eyes shut and pressed even harder back into him without a word.

* * *

Eventually, she had to actually see other friends, so she allowed Chantal to pick her up and fill the silence with what they were going to do with Joan's half-sister as she tried desperately to work up some kind of emotion or excitement that she couldn't feel.

Chantal had a nice place, kind of like Marcus', and Lin greeted them with a slightly uncertain smile despite her determination to be there.

It was a big step for Lin to be not only spending time with Joan for the sole purpose of 'sister time', but to also introduce herself to Chantal as such. Joan knew that, but couldn't bring herself to be any kind of supportive.

She drifted through the afternoon as they played card games and the other two eventually understood that she needed some time to herself for a bit. She would probably feel bad a few weeks down the road, but it couldn't be helped.

Leaving the others to their checkers battle, she found her attention drifting to the walls and corners and seeing the adornments and pictures left out for her perusal.

One picture in particular, however, caught her attention more than anything else.

It had been taken little more than a month ago on the Brooklyn Bridge.

She remembered it very well.

A beautiful supper afternoon, she and Sherlock having been on one of his experiments when they had run across Marcus and Chantal out on their own lunch date. Captain Gregson had been running errands when he came across them and they all could've just gone back to their separate lives and activities, but they ended up hanging out for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening.

The time the picture was taken, they were crossing the bridge into Manhattan when Sherlock had spied an exemplarily beautiful specimen of a bird gliding overhead and had pointed it out.

Joan had found her gaze caught by the graceful flight and had followed it with her eyes, Sherlock giving them some kind of lecture on it, but had had no idea that Marcus and Gregson were watching it, too. Chantal had managed to get their picture as they watched, focusing on them as they watched the bird out of frame.

Sherlock and herself were closest to the rail with Gregson and Marcus behind them. And further beyond them, the Freedom Tower soared over the Manhattan skyline.

Joan had traversed the bridge several times before 9/11 and she could still see in her mind's eye the two Towers nestled amidst the others they soared over – like birds nesting into similar surroundings, waiting for unsuspecting eyes to dismiss them before coming out with full gleaming coats on display.

And now.

It was a punch to the gut to see the space left behind.

Tears gathered in her eyes as she reached out a shaky hand and she was suddenly in the guest room, curled on her side on the farthest side of the bed, the picture clasped to her chest.

What she'd told the boys was correct about her being behind hospital walls the entire day.

She'd waited just like the others had, only allowing the barest trickle of news reach them so they didn't get distracted, waiting for patients that never came.

She knew the Towers had come down, she had, but it simply hadn't looked like two buildings when she had volunteered to work Ground Zero with thousands of other rescue workers and volunteers.

Perhaps she just never wanted to realize how the giant mess of steel came to be as she wandered around to keep busy. Maybe her mind had been trying to protect her, but it had ultimately been for naught.

She had watched a stretcher come out with a bundle of white in the middle of it and she'd been struck with the thought that the body bag was being brought out empty. She didn't know why it was empty and had thought to ask, but someone had commented almost callously that it was the largest part of a person they'd seen this shift and her thoughts had screeched to a halt.

That – that little –

That was a _person_?

What –

"Think they jumped from above the 80th floor?" another person almost absently asked.

Above the 80th floor? Jumped?

Why would the victim had jumped?

Above the 80th floor?

Of _what_?

"Maybe they rode the collapse down to the ground," the first speculated. "The Twins were the tallest Towers in the fucking city. Even the world, for a couple years. If someone rode 80 stories plus down to the pavement and all those pounds and tons of what used to be above them came crashing down on top of them, it's a miracle anything was left to be carted out of this mess."

"110 stories," the words echoed in her memory all these years later. "Hard to imagine, you know? Took three years to build them up and almost two hours to bring them down. Damn."

110 stories.

That was how tall the Towers were.

She found her eyes scanning the skyline, her frown growing deeper and deeper when she couldn't find them.

But…

She'd always been able to find them.

No matter where she was, what she was doing or what was happening.

So…

Where were they?

Her Detective friend was kneeling next to her with concern when she started looking around.

"Hey," he watched her with sharp blue eyes. "You okay?"

She stared at him wordlessly, her thoughts unable to coalesce in the silence.

"Talk to me," he urged. "What's goin' through your head?"

"I – I can't find them," she whispered, her eyes blurry as her mind screamed at her to be silent. But she needed to know. "I can't find them," she repeated, shaking her head. "I can't find them."

"Can't find who?" he gentled his voice, something in his expression telling her that he had an idea.

"The Towers," something started falling down her face as his eyes lowered. "Where are they?"

There was a gigantic pile of steel and metal that she saw all the time. The smoke and fumes and burning fuel contaminating the air came from it.

And then she had a thought.

"The Pile," she didn't feel good as her voice shook. "How did it get here? What… what did it use to be?"

He didn't look at her, not sure what to say.

Why wouldn't he look at her?

And why wasn't he answering?

It – it couldn't be that difficult, right?

The Pile…

Something about it had always seemed… familiar, somehow.

Especially…

Especially the parallel beams folded like aluminum sticks, laying everywhere.

Strange how similar they looked to the parallel façade of the Twin Tow-

"Oh my god," realization came crashing down and arms crushed her to a solid chest, struggling to hold her together as she fell apart.

She honestly didn't remember much after that, but she did – above all else – remember the soothing voice in her ear.

'We're okay,' it told her. 'We're okay. We're okay.'

She clung to it as her world turned upside down.

We're okay.

It echoed in her thoughts as she remembered flashes of time passing, a hand holding hers tightly as it led her around.

She never doubted her trust in the hand that led her away from – from…

From there.

She didn't know where it led her, but she trusted it and followed wherever it led.

At one point, there was a hot dog in her hand and she ate it without tasting.

She was vaguely aware that it was completely dark as they walked to some undisclosed location, vaguely aware of the other wandering souls, the pictures plastered on every conceivable corner and surface of people still missing and would probably always remain missing.

Time had no meaning as she was led down one street, then another. She'd never noticed before how sad everything was.

Completely, utterly, heartbreakingly silent.

No one spoke a word.

She didn't even know if she _could_ speak anymore, her mouth dry and something lodged in her throat that wasn't coming out no matter how many times she swallowed.

And then they were on the Brooklyn Bridge, walking.

"We're going in the wrong direction," she whispered, not sure if she was actually speaking words.

"Trust me on this," he squeezed her hand, his other in his pocket. "We're just goin' on a small trip. We'll come back."

"Okay," she nodded simply and followed.

They reached the other side and found a place to sit as they faced away from Manhattan.

"Just sit and breathe," he instructed. "We'll head back pretty soon."

She sat with her side pressed against his and tried to breathe, but it took a long time before she could do so easily and without choking on whatever was in her throat.

Her nose felt raw as she scrubbed with another clean tissue or napkin – maybe even a leaf – and something felt empty as she finally sat back and let his arm wrap around her.

"It's okay, you know," his voice sounded rough, like he'd been crying, too. "We're okay. Only way to go, now, is up."

They sat there for long moments before she finally managed to ask the one question that surfaced above all else:

"Why?"

"Been askin' that myself since that Tuesday," he shook his head. "And I was in the middle of that hell. I look at what's left and can't believe how I'm still alive."

"Maybe… maybe there's a reason," she pressed closer, ducking her head under his chin.

"Maybe," his voice rumbled in her ear, "but I wouldn't know what that reason could be."

As she half laid there against him, she couldn't help thinking that maybe he was there for her.

She didn't really know if she truly believed in a Higher Power, but she had friends who did. Maybe who or what was up in the clouds wanted something different for her - though she wouldn't know what since the medical field was her _life_.

Maybe there was a reason for him to have survived, a reason that may not have anything to do with her, but maybe.

It could even have been because of this moment and the secure feeling he was giving her. He'd been at Ground Zero since she'd begun, so maybe this had been inevitable.

Regardless, though, she couldn't even begin to articulate how grateful she was to have him there, a person who watched her back like Oren did.

A partner, in a sense.

Just the two of them against… whatever this was.

A team.

And that's when she remembered something that Oren had given her a number of years ago.

'I think I still have it,' she frowned, but ultimately decided to look later. She didn't want to move right now.

She felt tired and wrung out, but she didn't want to go to sleep if it meant that she had to let him leave.

"You can close your eyes, if you want," the Detective took the decision out of her hands, holding her more securely. "I'll stay up and then we'll walk back in about an hour or so. We're okay," he told her again and he kept saying it a few more times until she let her eyes slide closed and allowed the rumble against her cheek to give her an anchor to focus on in a dreamless sleep.

She'd either slept longer than she'd thought or it had been a lot later than it felt because dawn was breaking the next time her eyes opened.

Next to her, he'd fallen mostly silent with half-lidded eyes, but a slight hum still rumbled against her.

Silently, they gathered themselves up and made their way back to the bridge with an arm wrapped around the other. When they got to the halfway point, they stopped to watch the sunrise blanket Manhattan.

Her eyes were pulled to the gaping hole in the skyline and she swallowed roughly as her eyes burned with tears she didn't have the energy to spare. "I miss them," she rasped. "I miss them so much."

"I do, too," he answered simply.

* * *

"Joan?"

She blinked at the darkened room and turned slightly to see Chantal backlit against the hallway. "Yeah?"

"Dinner's almost ready," she announced. "If you want."

"Okay. I'll be there."

Chantal left her alone and she sat up with a sigh, the picture still cradled in her arms.

The lap next to her spilled soft light across the room when she turned it on, her gaze drawn back to the picture and the four of them standing in the foreground.

So much had changed between that morning on the bridge and the afternoon on the bridge, both to Joan herself and to the skyline.

Both had lost something and the skyline's addition stood tall.

But she had lost something and was still a mess – not unlike the Pile she'd worked from the edges.

And the hole left inside her own skyline still hadn't healed the way the other one had.

Yet…

Her eyes looked at her image nestled amidst three of her best friends like they were their own skyline and she wondered if maybe she wasn't – all along – part of that skyline long before her own had had a hole ripped through it. She herself was a building with smoke pouring out, about to buckle if not for someone who had started repairs on her the first time.

Those repairs had worn down over time and buckled at the loss of her room's contents in the Brownstone's fire, but arms of gentle steel encased her frame to keep her from toppling, a voice commanding repairs as yet another pair of arms reinforced her to keep her steady.

All of them building her up again to make her soar like the Freedom Tower over what used to be, all the while leaving a space to remind the viewer that something else had once stood nearby. Not to say it was bigger or better, but to pay homage to what had made it possible for it to have been born.

With the loss of her pouch of two precious items, born from that Tower's same beginnings, she gained the knowledge that she had a sturdy foundation built by three who, on some level, recognized their role in that foundation that wouldn't let her fall.

The Detective she had befriended had unknowingly kick-started this entire chain of events that had led her to this moment. And he would never know it, much like an architect never truly realizing the potential greatness he held in his hands or what it would turn out to become.

Losing her pouch had led her to this picture, the physical reminder that she wasn't alone.

She had traded one reminder for another and a fierce protectiveness suddenly welled up in her to keep it safe.

Chantal wouldn't mind her borrowing it.

She would keep it safe, after all.

Something she had vowed to do once before, a small medallion clutched in her fist, but she would take extra measures this time.

She couldn't get the pouch and contents back, but she had a new anchor. One she _could_ keep in several places at once, though maybe just at her bed to start with.

She would miss the feeling of both medallion and bracelet – miss them like nothing else –, but she couldn't just remain a pile of ashes. Her friends had begun the rebuilding process and it was up to her to finish it – something she would have to do if for no other reason than to prove to herself and the Detective that she still had a team. One that she had more or less stumbled across and built on her own and she wouldn't have had that had it not been for him.

She was no longer afraid to cross paths with him.

If she ever did, she would thank him profusely for what he'd done for her – something she probably wouldn't be able to fully make him understand because there were just no words to explain – and show him the picture of her team.

Because that's what they were.

A team.

Maybe he would want to meet them one day and she would probably be okay with that, but she would want to catch up with him first, having listened to him talk about his own family. She would also want to hug him again one last time, so she could always remember what it felt like and maybe try to figure out why it felt similar to the few times that Captain Gregson wrapped her up in a hug. She still felt kind of ashamed to have imagined her other friend, but it helped.

She didn't know why Gregson reminded her of her friend, only that he did.

Maybe it was their similar personalities or something, but it kind of gave her some hope now that maybe the Detective would understand that she hadn't meant to lose either of her things and wouldn't be upset if he still remembered.

Assuming he was still around, of course.

But Joan had a feeling that he _had_ remembered.

Instinct?

She didn't know.

"Joan?" Chantal cracked the door open again. "Dinner's ready."

"Sure," she looked up with a smile, the picture safely stowed under her pillows and out of sight.

For possibly the first time since the Brownstone was destroyed about a week ago, she felt a renewed sense of being and an accompanying hunger that had her restraining herself lest she start inhaling everything in reach.

"Looks like that nap did good," Chantal seemed relieved as she and Lin watched with matching smiles.

"I guess so," she smiled to herself.

She was much more sociable after that, though more quiet to observe them interacting with each other. She was glad they were fast friends – and hers -, but she felt the urge to see her boys growing stronger the longer she watched.

Finally, however, they all had to go to bed and she found herself in the guest room with Lin eyeing her uncertainly from the door.

"Come on," Joan finally waved her over, climbing into her side of the bed and sliding the picture to the floor under a sweater. "It's okay. We can watch each other's backs from anything that dares to sneak in here," she told her in all seriousness. "That's what Oren and I do when we share a bed. It's new for me to be the older one, but I think I'm up for the challenge. What do you say?"

She watched her for a long moment and must have seen something on her face or in her body language, because she softened and climbed in on the other side. "So," she spoke in the darkness as her unfamiliar warmth pressed back against Joan. "This is normal for siblings?"

"Normal for siblings?" she hummed. "I'm sure there are siblings who do this. Normal for me and my big brother? Yes. It – it helps, sometimes."

She heard silence for a long moment before the quiet answer, "It's nice. I can see the appeal."

Joan hummed and may have said something, but she fell asleep before another thought had the chance to form.

* * *

 _"- and then I came home to the news that the Brownstone's been reduced to a pile of rubbish!"_ Kitty's familiar accent drifted over the line and into Joan's ear as she waited for Chantal to finish her shopping, her foot anxiously tapping the air as she waited to see the boys.

"I know," she restlessly looked around, "but there were so many things going on."

 _"I know that,"_ she huffed, _"but Alfredo's not even in New York and I had to hear it from him! Not that he isn't lovely, because I adore him, but…"_

"I'm sorry," she told her. "Maybe next time, you'll be the very first person we call."

 _"You'd better,"_ she threatened, _"or the three of us will kidnap the lot of you and haul you back to London."_

She would likely leave Archie with the Nanny and kidnap her, Sherlock and Clyde herself.

"I'll let everyone know to not worry when we go missing," she promised.

 _"But you're alright, though, aren't you?"_ her voice flooded with the concern she couldn't reveal to Sherlock the way she could with Joan. _"And Clyde? And the bees?"_

"Clyde and the bees actually weren't there, as strange as that timing was, and I assure you that we're okay."

 _"Good, that's good. I'm glad,"_ Kitty sounded so much more relieved than she was when the call began almost twenty minutes ago. _"Tell Sherlock I called, yeah?"_

"Are you sure you can't hold on a little longer? I'll be meeting him in a bit."

 _"I wish I could, but you know how it is. Have witnesses to speak to and such. But it really is good to hear you and talk to you. You should visit London while the Brownstone is being rebuilt."_

"Demolition hasn't even started, yet," she told her. "Investigators are double and quadruple checking everything to make absolutely sure of what happened. And Sherlock got his hands on the report, so everyone's going over it with a fine toothed comb."

 _"It really was faulty wiring, then?"_

"That's what it's looking like, but you know how it is. I'm just waiting to hear something about covering up a robbery or something," both snorted knowingly.

With Sherlock Holmes around, nothing was ever actually simple.

"I'm just hoping it really is faulty wiring. The neighbors that this started with are taking legal action and everyone else is doing the same. I have to let the investigation run a little longer before we do so, but Chantal assures me that she has associates she can contact to help us out."

 _"Will everyone be moving back in?"_

"It looks like it so far, but at least one had been thinking of moving somewhere upstate, so we'll see."

 _"I know you'll be moving back,"_ Kitty sounded confident in her statement. _"You and Sherlock wouldn't be Holmes and Watson without the Brownstone. And if all else fails, you can move to Baker Street."_

It wouldn't feel right to her, but, "Thanks for the offer, Kitty, but I don't think it'll get to that point. Sherlock's father has a few properties we can move into if we need them and my sister is looking into other properties, so I'm sure we'll be fine."

 _"Keep me apprised of the situation, yeah? I'd rather not drop by and find that Sherlock up and moved elsewhere without a forwarding address. Don't quite think that'll happen, though. Oh, when you do visit, Detective Bell and Captain Gregson are more than welcome to tag along."_

"I'll be sure to let them know," she assured.

They hung up a moment later and she checked the time.

If Chantal didn't come out soon on her own, Joan was either going to go after her or leave her and leaving was the choice that pulled at her if she didn't think Marcus – and Chantal – would be upset with her.

Seriously, they really had to leave in the next fifteen minutes or –

"John? John Watson, as I live and breathe!"

She twirled around at the familiar voice and grinned. "Guillaume! How are you?"

The senior waiter grinned toothily back as he opened his arms. "Better now that I've seen the best Doc in New York," he gave her a tight squeeze that was every bit as good as she remembered.

"Best _former_ Doc, you mean," she muffled into his shirt. "Consulting Detective now, remember?"

"And I'd say the best damn Consulting Detective in New York if I didn't think your Sherlock would take exception," he pronounced.

"And I've told you, he's not 'my Sherlock'. That's not how it works," she corrected again, a light heat on her cheeks at the playfully unconvinced side-eye he always gave her when she said it.

"Uh… huh. _Sure_ it's not."

"Why do I bother," she stepped back with a half-hearted huff. "And didn't you accuse me two years ago of being in the closet?"

"I revised that while I listened to your swooning last time, didn't I tell you? All it takes is one person."

"I was not _swooning_ , I was venting. Seriously, ever since Jason agreed to move in with you –"

"Now, John, don't you blame Jason. You know you love him," he chided, wagging a finger at her. "Why, if we managed to be half as in love like you and your Sherlock –"

"It's not like that!"

"I fail to see why not. Has a ring to it, you know? Holmes and Watson, Sherlock and John."

"Except my name is not, never has been and never will be 'John'."

"You should probably stop answering to it, then," he smirked, knowing he just got her and why she would probably never stop answering to it.

She was trying to come up with a response when she spied an amused Chantal watching with interest.

"I'm not in love with Sherlock," she said flatly.

"I… wasn't aware that was in question," Chantal crossed her arms, bags hanging from an elbow, as she looked from one to the other. A beat passed before she held out a hand. "Chantal."

They stared blankly at her for a moment before he perked up. "Oh! Guillaume," he gave her hand a warm squeeze before giving a slight bow over it. "Enchanté, fair lady. I suppose you're about to steal our dear John away for another engagement."

"'John'?" she raised a bemused brow at her. "Funny. I always thought I was pronouncing it 'Joan'. I guess I'm sorry for saying it wrong."

"You're not," Joan hastily assured. "I'm actually not too certain how I even started answering to 'John', anyway." Which may or may not be true, but that was neither here nor there.

"And how is it that you're acquainted with our John, if I may be nosy enough to ask?" Guillaume returned to Joan's side, draping a casual arm around her.

"Friend of a friend," Joan answered. "I've been staying with her the past couple nights and we were just on our way to see her boyfriend Marcus, Sherlock and the Captain – I told you about them, remember?"

"Well, aren't you two best friends," Chantal noted. "And how did you two meet?"

That stopped them both, exchanging uncertain looks and realizing that they'd never actually talked about meeting Joan's friends – or explaining their shared history.

"We… actually met in a bathroom," she turned back to the other woman with a shrug. "It's been so long that I don't even remember how that happened."

Which was a complete and utter lie.

"She tracks me down once in a while to visit," Guillaume shrugged. "There have been a number of times where we've actually run across the other like this. Always a treat, don't get me wrong, and I'm constantly on the lookout for John lurking in the shadows."

"I don't 'lurk in the shadows'," she rolled her eyes.

"Boston Cream Pie."

"And can you let that go? I bought you a new one. Three."

They were in the middle of one of their usual debates when Joan suddenly looked down at her watch.

"Oh, we're running late. Guillaume, I'm sorry, but we have to run."

"By all means," he smiled knowingly. "Give Sherlock a –"

She pulled her arm back and punched his arm as hard as she could.

Every time since she explained about her new life to him, Guillaume had always ended their visits by telling her to 'give Sherlock a kiss from me', but Chantal didn't need to know that.

"So violent, our John," he lamented, not missing a beat as he rubbed his arm. "Makes me wonder how Sherlock can live with it."

"I'm honestly not sure I want to know," Chantal deadpanned, unwittingly already knowing enough to paint her own picture. "But we really have to leave, so it was really nice to meet you."

"Likewise, my dear," he gave her hand another squeeze before turning to Joan, who willingly went to get another hug. "And you, John, I'll be looking for around Thanksgiving this year. Same place, same time. Don't be a stranger."

"I'll see what I can do," she promised.

The girls were making their way to the agreed upon meeting place sometime later when Chantal finally spoke.

"He was nice," she commented.

"He is," Joan confirmed. "One of the nicest people I know."

They walked in silence for a long moment before Chantal nodded and changed the subject. "So, about this temporary place Sherlock's moved the two of you into. I'd like pictures, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, curious herself.

It was actually why they were meeting Sherlock and Marcus – potentially along with Gregson, since no one was sure he would be there.

Sherlock had found a place for them to stay and she talked to him earlier, not certain why she thought he seemed rather disappointed at the prospect but unable to shake the impression.

It was the second least renovated of Morland Holmes' properties – which explained why it was temporary, but didn't explain why Sherlock seemed a little satisfied with the arrangement – and actually wasn't that far from the Brownstone. One day, she was actually going to sit Sherlock down and force him to cough up all the locations of the properties he had at his disposal.

For all she knew, there was actually a possibility that she kept walking past it on her way to and from the Brownstone.

They found Sherlock and Marcus right where Joan expected to see them outside a coffee shop, Sherlock's hands flying through the air as Marcus watched with a coffee cup in his hand. Whatever he was talking about had Sherlock whirling to pace when he spied them down the street.

"There you are, Watson!" he suddenly halted and clasped his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "I was just explaining to the Detective –"

"We thought we missed you or somethin'," Marcus broke in with a snort. "Now that Joan's here, we should get goin'."

"Ms. Hudson will be a moment," Sherlock gave him a slight glare. "I hope you don't too terribly mind, Watson, but she is our housekeeper and should know where we currently go home to. For now."

She hadn't seen the blonde in about a week or so – probably before the fire – and nodded agreeably. "Was the Captain joining us, too?" she couldn't see him as she glanced around.

"Haven't heard from him, but if he doesn't show, I'll just have to bring him the next time I visit," Marcus shrugged.

Ms. Hudson appeared a moment later with her own beverage to-go and they all stood to the side near an alley to allow customers to stream past. "It's great to see you again, Chantal," she grinned widely at her.

"Great to see you, too," she beamed back. "You're hosting Thanksgiving this year, right?"

"As far as I can tell, yes. Still available?"

"I will keep the Circle updated on the message board," Chantal sighed.

Mason had set it up awhile back so that Joan could get in touch with the Irregulars she knew, even allowing her to invite people to become one of her own Irregulars and she was still marveling over the fact that she even _had_ Irregulars to really be upset that Sherlock was constantly stealing them.

One of the Irregulars Joan made sure to always consult was Harlan the Mathematician. He really did think the world of Sherlock and Joan found it sweet that Harlan constantly wanted to impress him.

Sherlock – despite what he kept saying – did have a bit of a soft spot for him and Joan hadn't been surprised to see him at last year's little Christmas bash at the Brownstone.

'The Circle', as Mason called Sherlock's closest people, was a special forum branching out from the main message board that involved Sherlock, Joan, Hudson, Marcus, Gregson, Alfredo and at least two others at last check. Chantal had been recently invited into the group herself and everyone knew to keep an eye on it as far as holidays or gathers were concerned.

It really was a very inspired way to keep in touch with everyone and Joan used it constantly.

"As will I," Hudson agreed. All of them knew that schedules changed.

They caught up for a bit before Chantal sighed. "Alright, folks. I best get going. Paperwork will not fill itself out. Marcus, I'll see you soon," she gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Sherlock, Ms. Hudson, great to see you."

"And you," they returned before Chantal turned to Joan with an innocent look she knew all too well.

"I expect those pictures very soon," she grinned, "so don't keep me in suspense for long, _Johnny boy._ "

"That smells like a story if you ask me," Ms. Hudson pointedly nudged Joan as Chantal made her way back down the street and out of sight. "Any takers?"

"It's not that interesting," Joan sighed. "I ran into an old friend while I was waiting for Chantal."

"And how do you know this 'old friend'?" she asked.

Joan thought about not answering, maybe not even the truth, but if she couldn't tell them, then who would she be able to talk to?

"I don't know if I told you," she rubbed her temple for a moment, "but I actually worked at the Pile after 9/11. It was crazy back then, you know? I met Guillaume my second day, really."

Her friend had confided a lot later that he'd actually been trying to track down his roommate near Ground Zero and had had a front row seat to the events that unfolded. They really had met in a bathroom, but it was he that had ended up in the women's restroom.

He'd been standing braced on the sink bank as he stared at his reflection when she appeared to wash her hands.

By the end of that day, they'd become fast friends. Along with the Detective, they'd both found their little niche with each other. She never asked about his experiences, though. Neither one of them.

"Oh, honey," Ms. Hudson drew her into a comforting hug. "I'm so sorry."

"It was great to see him again," she insisted, "but 9/11 is coming up soon and it's bringing back a few things."

"Oh, honey," she gave her a squeeze. "I can't imagine how anyone feels about 9/11 who actually experienced it themselves. I wasn't living in New York at the time, but you and Marcus and the Captain were and Marcus wasn't anywhere near Ground Zero, right, Marcus?"

"No," he looked down. "Not directly."

Sherlock smiled slightly at him, but it missed Joan's notice as she realized for the first time that she wouldn't have the two things she always turned to every September 11th, without fail.

While true that both represented her connection to one person, there was also the… connection to 9/11 itself. It was the reason she'd volunteered at Ground Zero, a decision that had allowed her to meet the Detective.

Funny how it was only now that she realized how much other things were also tied in to what she lost.

Or how much she would miss the pendant's smooth weight against her chest as she wore it under her clothing.

Because the pair of items were never just about the connection to one person.

Maybe it never had been, but it was also only now that realization dawned:

It had been bigger than she'd always believed and, yet, there was too much to accurately put into words.

Words failed at a lot of surprising things, none more so than at that moment.

None more so than the enormity of 9/11 or what came out of it.

Emotions, sentiments, fears, hopes, _loss_.

Truly, for the first time, the phrase 'words fail' had never been more accurate as moisture began to gather at the corner of her eyes and she simply had no response.

"That's what you lost in the Brownstone," Sherlock spoke – deduced? Maybe it didn't need to be deduced, because it was writ on her features. "Something about 9/11 was lost and that is why you haven't been yourself."

Maybe.

Maybe he was right.

At the end of the day, maybe it really was all about 9/11 regardless of what other connections she'd assigned to her objects.

She had given the Detective something in direct response to taking care of her as she struggled with 9/11. She had assigned a deep connection to her lost items, because of circumstances almost designed by 9/11 and her attachment to someone she had met as a result.

At the end of the day, there were actually a few things that _couldn't_ be attributed to 9/11 in some way, shape or form.

And sometimes, even before all of this – the fire, losing the Brownstone -, she would pause in the midst of a case, in the midst of the chase riding high on what medicine could ultimately never give her, and wonder.

Wonder for a moment what she would be doing or where she would be had she not received something given to her by someone she could very well had never met if it hadn't been for 9/11.

Back then, she'd never actually thought on that – on that thought or the implications she suddenly couldn't stuff back in a box once the thought existed.

She couldn't do that anymore, because she realized just how far reaching 9/11 really was.

"Your loss," Sherlock was going on despite the epiphany Joan was having, "has something to do with 9/11 – possibly something that was given to you during your time in the aftermath. It might have been something that reminded another too much of a lost loved one and you kept it for sentimental obligation reasons or you simply gained whatever it was from another for reasons only clear to the both of you and you became attached to that object because of whatever meaning you may have attached to the person themselves. That object symbolizes that meaning or attachment and the loss of it has… has…" he seemed at a loss, hands waving as words struggled to present thoughts. " _Unmoored_ you," he finally found.

"You've hung on to it ever since 9/11 – next to your person – and it is so very much important to you, perhaps even because of the possibility that you forgot the details of your original regard to the person or object in question. The whole… _thing_ of September 11, 2001 – that I have found in recent weeks – is that there are some objects that may seem … unnecessarily important in other circumstances, but are almost revered in a sense because it is a connection to 9/11 itself. Something inherently is important after 9/11, but the original details and impressions may have faded the way some details are wont to do. Nothing to really be ashamed of, Watson," he felt it necessary to assure. "It is, at heart, simply a trait of human nature. Such as a circumstance only imagined as child's play, yet – to the observer's surprise – , the reality being much more… severe. If nothing else," he finally wound down, "you have my sincerest condolences for a loss you will never truly recover from."

Joan simply let Ms. Hudson hold her, tears slipping down her cheeks.

"Maybe I should stay the night," the blonde suggested. "Especially if Sherlock, of all people, is going on about sentiment of all things."

"Also in recent weeks, I've come to understand sentiment as it pertains to the … event here in New York," Sherlock informed her. "Not all sentiment is baseless or without merit."

"But other kinds of sentiment are?" Marcus had to ask.

"Of course. Just because I understand sentiment as it pertains to 9/11, does not – by any stretch of imagination – mean that I understand it in other areas. As you already are aware, Detective, I am not like everyone else. I am different and above such trifles. That said, however, I find the event – the – the _ethos_ – exceptional not only on a personal level, but it is perhaps the single most defining event in the City's history. Being part of the City, I find myself being likewise affected by something I wasn't even physically present to witness. Mostly through the reactions of everyone around me in certain… circumstances."

They fell into silence before Joan was given a slight nudge.

"Speaking of circumstances," Ms. Hudson produced a tissue from a pocket and Joan gratefully accepted it. "If it's alright, I'd really like to know how this whole 'Johnny boy' nickname came to be. I would understand if you would rather not, but –"

"It's okay," she shook her head, wiping her eyes with a slight smile as she thought about one of the best memories she had about the time. "I'm not sure how it actually came about, but I remember that first day. The, uh, firefighters were the ones mostly on the Pile and I think it was one of them that called out 'John!' I guess I must've responded or something, because then I started getting all these firefighters who were calling me 'John'.

"Soon, it spread to the others and now all these people were calling me 'John' no matter what I said – even the volunteers who set up shop down the street. I was the only 'J' in two medical teams and the only female 'J' in five. Maybe one of the others got my name wrong or something, but everyone seemed to have a lot of fun with it and then I realized that there was just… so much to be sad over that I just didn't have the heart to really put a stop to it. If one person thinks of the Pile and remembers the girl that went by 'John' and feels a little better, then what's the harm of answering to 'John'? It honestly sounded enough like 'Joan' that I answer to it without even realizing it, even all these years later. Guillaume and his partner and all their regular customers and co-workers took to calling me 'John', too. Even other people actually named 'John'."

She grinned slightly as she tilted her head, "I can't help wondering, sometimes, if they figured my last name was 'Johnson' and went for it or they thought something else, but it was the least I could do if I could get a smile out of someone."

"Yeah, you're real good at that," Marcus agreed with a slight smile. "Wonder if they knew how lucky they were that they had you."

"You're just saying that because you're my friend," Joan denied, her heart feeling a little lighter with the three of them immediately jumping in to insist it was true.

"But are you well?" Sherlock eventually asked somewhat uncertainly, once the laughter faded.

Joan gave it a serious thought before nodding. "I think I will be."

"Yeah, we're okay," Marcus reached out a hand and Joan absently reached out her own, the feel of his hand a physical comfort on a possibly higher level than the arm Ms. Hudson still had around her.

A hand around her wrist drew her gaze to Sherlock, who had come so far from shying away at the slightest _suspicion_ of being touched. "We most certainly are 'okay'," he proclaimed with a squeeze.

She looked down at their connected hands with the slight hum of surprise at the … the feeling of connection she'd once only attributed to the pendant and a flash of red at her wrist.

This?

This was just as good, just as grounding, as she used to feel.

She looked up at the two pairs of eyes – one as dark as her own, the other constantly between blue and green – and knew that she was part of something.

Something possibly even on the level of what she'd felt with the Detective.

She never imagined to every really feel it again after losing the pouch and all that the contents stood for.

"I guess so," she smiled back at the both of them, squeezing the hand in hers and feeling the grip tighten on her wrist.

She didn't know how long they stood there, but she reveled in the feeling of connection until Ms. Hudson cleared her throat.

"I'd really love to keep watching the three of you like this, but I don't actually have much time before I start running late for one of my appointments."

"Right," Sherlock squeezed Joan's wrist again before the three of them simultaneously let their hands fall. "To our new residence. For the moment."

"I guess the Captain couldn't make it, after all," Joan suddenly remembered why they'd been waiting to begin with.

"Guess not," Marcus shrugged. "But, hey, you know. Not like he couldn't track you down if he really tried."

* * *

Part Six:

* * *

The place might've been a virtual stone's throw from the Brownstone, but it most certainly _wasn't._

Upon arriving yesterday, the first thought Joan had ran along the lines of, 'It's so… open.

The living room, kitchen and door were all in plain sight, the upstairs had a few rooms and a library already half-stocked with replacements of the books Sherlock had lost.

It was quite honestly a shock, considering how much Sherlock adored the Brownstone and its concealing walls.

She wasn't sure how long they would be there, but she at least hoped it would be long enough for her to get used to the new place. It had honestly surprised her with how she struggled with adapting when the Brownstone had basically felt like home after the first week.

Her room was a cousin to her old one – right down to the mattress on the floor -, but was by no means identical. She hadn't been sure what to make of it when she woke up, but reasoned that she was going to have more time to get used to it.

Sherlock had told her that he would see her around dinner tonight and he had very much so absent since she'd woken some hours ago.

Not like she wasn't used to it already, so she simply went about the morning as if she was still at the Brownstone and was just cleaning up from lunch when she heard a knock at the door.

A peek through the peephole showed Captain Gregson outside the door with his hands in his pockets and an odd smile on his face.

"Captain?" she opened the door and waved him in before closing and locking it behind him. "None of us heard from you all day, yesterday. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," he looked around as she went back to her clean up. "Sorry… I," he breathed a deep sigh, "I just… There was something I needed to take care of."

"Well, I hope it works out. Tea?"

"Yeah, I hope it works out, too," he made his way to a sofa and Joan settled on the other end after arranging the tea service tray on the table in front of them. "I hope it's alright that I'm here," he told her, his attention mostly on the tea.

"Of course," Joan smiled slightly at his bent over profile. "You and Marcus have a standing invitation here, did Marcus forget to tell you?"

"Nah, he told me," he gave his head a shake. "Holmes sent the same message not long after Bell left."

"Oh."

Joan sat and sipped her tea as they fell into silence.

Having nothing else to really do, she studied Gregson, who seemed… a bit nervous, if she was any judge. He didn't exactly avoid her gaze, but he also wasn't inviting it, either. Usually, he would catch and hold her gaze, but he just didn't seem interested in trying.

It also seemed like he had something on his mind.

"Is everything alright?" she questioned, her concern growing the longer the silence held. "Captain?" she reached out to touch his arm, the touch seeming to draw him a little out of his thoughts.

"Tommy," he roughly wiped at his eyes.

"What?"

"My name," he huffed a slight laugh, the laugh sounding a little like a sob. "You of all people should know that."

"Oh," she frowned. Of course, she knew that. She just never actually felt that comfortable using it.

"Should've told you a long time ago."

"Did you want me to use it?" she asked.

He wordlessly nodded and she did the same in response.

"Okay," she agreed. "Tommy. It's nice to meet you."

"Probably should've led with that," he shook his head. "All this time…"

He seemed kind of … upset?

"It's alright," she hadn't thought it was such a big deal, but she'd been more preoccupied with keeping Sherlock clean at the time. "I understand."

"I don't think you do. But." They sat in silence for a long time before he drew in an almost shaky breath. "I – uh. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that."

"I don't hold it against you," she assured again. "Please don't beat yourself up about it."

They were silent a bit longer before she continued, "Is everything alright? I mean, I guess it's unusual to apologize to a friend for not telling her to use your first name, but I've been living with Sherlock for about five years or so now, so maybe it's not that unusual. Was that what you came here for? I mean, I can fix you a sandwich if you want something to eat."

"Not ready to eat, yet, but thanks. I actually…" he hesitated before continuing. "I'm actually here to… well. 9/11 is next week."

She couldn't exactly forget that, but it was hard for a lot of the Responders and maybe – for whatever reason – he finally wanted to … to pass this 9/11 doing something different.

"Did you want to talk about it?" she gentled her voice. "You know I'll listen. After you listened to me… it's the least I could do. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I'll still be here for you."

He seemed to think and acquiesced with a nod. "We might be here all day."

"I can handle it. Whatever it takes to help you," she said in no uncertain terms, ready to hear everything he wanted her to know and experience right along with him.

He nodded, but didn't say anything right away. He sipped his probably stone cold tea without complaint and slowly leaned back into the couch with a sigh that came from somewhere deep inside. "How're you holdin' up?" he finally glanced at her.

"Me?" she blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You volunteered to help at the Pile," he lifted a shoulder. "You know the end of the story, so you have just as much of a stake in the memories as I do – and I was there from the start. Just because you weren't there when the Towers fell, it doesn't mean you're any less important – your memories are the same as a lot of others who came in after. Yeah, I understand that the Responders who were there are the heroes and heroines, but you didn't have to keep going day after day for less than a month. You could've just cut out after – hell – the first _day._

"But you kept coming back and you kept experiencing and you kept making memories. Yours being different than mine, but no less important in the story. And I get that the ones actually working the Pile had the worst of it, but what about those on the outside? The ones on the edges? We weren't the only ones that 9/11 happened to, we were just at the heart of it. I was there from start to finish, but you didn't come in until the end. That said, the end of the story was probably just as unbelievable as the start or the middle. And after the number of years we've had with Holmes, I think one of the best things that we can take away is that those on the edges are just as important as everyone else. So, how are you doin' with 9/11 looming overhead? I know you were on the edges, where not a lot of attention went, but I also know that you were still affected."

Joan stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes watching back.

She'd never actually thought of that before, how she had felt.

It had been all about the firefighters in those first days, then the other Responders – and they deserved all the attention they got.

Attention she never truly expected to turn her way, because she didn't deserve it.

She never got to the action, never knew why she and so many others waited for patients, so others got attention and recognition. They actually did something.

To be asked about 9/11 like she'd actually been at the heart of it…

"All things considered," she swallowed unnamable emotions because it was really not about her right now. "All things considered, I'm doing okay."

"Only place left to go is up, right?" he smiled slightly, almost knowingly.

"Yeah," she smiled back. "But thank you," she got choked up again.

"Welcome," he faced forward with another sigh. "I guess I got lucky after. Luckier than most others. I, uh, actually… I guess you could say I made a friend after all that. She … she was a medical… volunteer, I think. One of the first things I found out about her was that she wasn't a Doctor, yet. I think there might've been a test or something. If there was, pretty sure she aced it," he gave a smile at the thought. "She definitely struck me as someone who succeeded in her chosen career. Sometimes, I really can't be sorry she was there, because… she ended up giving me something that I still hold on to even to this day. Maybe not entirely on an emotional level, but she actually gave me an object I still have. It's helped to the point that I actually can't put into words the gratitude I feel for her."

"She sounds great," Joan smiled, thinking of her Detective friend. After a long moment, she peeked at him almost shyly before adding, "Sounds kind of like the friend _I_ made in the middle of all the destruction. He helped me, too, both as actual emotional support and by giving me something of my own to hold on to. I don't think he'll ever know how much it meant to me," her smile faded.

"Yeah?" he turned back to her. "What happened?"

"To him? I don't know. But what he gave me… it. It was lost in the Brownstone the night it went up. So, even if I did see him again, I wouldn't have what he gave me to show him how important it was for so long."

"It's not important, anymore?"

"No, I – I wouldn't say that. It's not… so much that it's important as the loss of it has made me realize that the – the reason I was attached to the two things I had latched onto so hard in the aftermath… It wasn't just those objects or that person that I was connected to, but I now have others who will go out of their way to show me the very thing I had thought to never feel again. And – and now I don't feel as empty without it. So. Did that make sense?"

"It did," he nodded, still watching her. "I'm glad to hear that you're doin' better. Especially with what you lost."

"The objects," she shrugged. "I still have the memories." And the picture she took from Chantal. Even if she had noticed its absence, there didn't seem to be any rush to retrieve it and Joan wasn't about to draw her attention to it in the off-chance that she hadn't noticed, yet.

"But, sometimes, you need the object, too," he pointed out. "There are feelings you attach to things that are only present when you touch them. It's the same with me, you know. I take out that necklace and just hold it. Maybe wear it for a couple hours. I'm really not sure that anyone can truly understand what someone else has done for them until they're in the same spot strugglin' to find words to describe their own feelings."

She had to agree, especially with all the support group meetings she'd gone to over the years.

It's why Sherlock and Alfredo were such a good match.

They understood.

Maybe not much beyond the addiction, but they understood and that was enough.

"Yeah, I guess so. But at least you still have your object, right?"

"Right here," he patted his suit jacket pocket. "And while I'm thinking about it," he opened his jacket and dug into one of the interior pockets before extracting a small drawstring bag. "Found this last night in a shoebox. I know it's not exactly the same, but I hope this will replace the necklace you lost."

She put her empty tea mug back on the coffee table and carefully took the offered bag. Whatever was inside definitely had some weight to it… almost familiar.

Her brow was furrowed, trying to capture something that was on the tip of her tongue, when she suddenly stilled. "Wait," she said slowly, her eyes slowly meeting his expectant gaze. "I never said what I lost."

His eyes dropped to her hands and came back up, his nod encouraging her to look.

Something niggling in the back of her mind, she tilted the bag and watched the object slide onto her waiting palm.

Her thoughts crashed to a halt as her eyes locked on a pendant that was too familiar to be a different necklace. It was _exactly_ the one she had lost, the round medallion the exactly identical twin to the one her Detective friend had given her so many years ago.

It took a long, long minute as she stared at it, a suspicion – a deduction, a _revelation_ – taking over everything else before she had to ask, had to know:

"No one knew what it was, never mind what it looked like," emotion making her voice shaky as she kept her head down, almost afraid of what she would see. "I mean… the only way that you could – could know about me having a St. Michael's medallion is – is –"

"If I was the one that gave it to you," his warm voice had her looking up into his smiling eyes. "That friend I told you about? The one I made in the days after 9/11? I never did actually get her name, but I only know her by what everyone was calling her. I overheard you yesterday when you were telling Holmes, Bell and Hudson abut meetin' your friend – the waiter friend who force fed us sandwiches once, wasn't he? – and some things were startin' to sound a little familiar, so I had a good long think and came up with a deduction. And I'm pretty sure it's a sound deduction, judging by your reactions, _John_."

Her breath caught as a younger voice echoed the nickname in the same tone she'd heard so many times before.

"Oh my god," her vision was suddenly blurry as she stared at him, her memories rolling back to every incident, every interaction since they'd met because of Sherlock, every momentary pause because of something Gregson had done that gave her déjà vu.

And now she realized _why_.

"Then I realized," Gregson – Tommy – huffed a laugh, "that I never actually got a chance to tell you about me – especially my name."

"I – I didn't –"

"Recognize me? I'm not surprised. Holmes has a habit of making the rest of us forget our lives before he crashed into them. And so much has happened to the both of us since 9/11. Hell, I didn't really recognize you, either, even though I could've sworn I'd met you before in the early days. Didn't think much of it since ethnic features consistently bring up the feelin' that someone met someone else before. Figured it was somethin' like that."

What was she supposed to do with this information?

Someone who she'd convinced herself would never cross her path again actually turned out to be one of her closest friends?

"Hard to take in, I know," he acknowledged, suddenly holding out a second drawstring bag. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if I even wanted you to know about this, but I remembered how devastated you were after having lost your bracelet in addition to the pendant. Remember what you said when you gave it to me? After realization hit and you checked out til dawn the next day? You said that you thought somethin' about being a team and that's why you gave me this," he gave the bag a slight shake. "To remind me that no matter what else happens –"

"You're not alone," she finished, unable to look away from that bag. "That you're part of a set. You may not remember me, but you will remember that someone's got your back."

"And you hold on to that," a hand wrapped around hers, the one clutching the pendant. "You believed that – so I did, too. I've never regretted that – not once –, because you were _right_. You might not have been there – not intentionally or physically -, but you did have my back. Ever since you rotated out, not a day went by that I didn't think of you somehow. You only entered into the picture at the end of the story, but you were influential in how I got through the rest of it once it started actually sinking in. John – _Joan_ -," he held her gaze with complete seriousness, "you will never know the ways that you helped me. And you will never know how much of my life that I owe you."

"I think I – I do," she swallowed and couldn't look away from his intent gaze for a long time.

He must've seen something in her expression, because something that looked an awful lot like understanding flashed on his face before he looked down.

She tipped her own head down and watched blankly as he tipped the bag over in the space between them, a flash of red with thin lines of black identical to the same flash of red with thin lines of black that she'd gotten so used to seeing on her wrist in the dim lighting of outside lights and candles and lamps that always – _always_ – caught the colors.

Arms were around her, crushing her as gently as they could to a familiar heartbeat as she struggled to breathe, her hands fisted around both necklaces as she tried to speak.

"I got your back," a voice whispered into her ear, a hand around the back of her neck in a comforting grip. "Just breathe. We're okay. We're okay."

'We're okay,' a British accent chorused as a deeper voice joined in.

 _We're okay._

 ** _We're okay._**

She squeezed her eyes shut as the mantra slowly became her lullaby and she listened to the heartbeat underscoring the voices she clung to, no words coming forward in comprehensible language as she pressed closer. The rumble against her cheek harked back to that one night so long ago and she knew without a _doubt_ that it was the same rumble that anchored her so handily the first time.

Funny how it worked just as thoroughly the second time.

Eventually, the emotions settled like sediment in churned waters the longer she listened to the heartbeat and felt the rumble echoing around her.

She was completely wrung out as she sat there and let him hold her together the way he'd done the first time, the way he'd continued to do after Sherlock came into their lives and neither had realized how significant their meeting actually was. She trusted him so completely now, having gone through so much with him over the years, on a much deeper level than she had ever really believed possible.

She'd trusted him back then, too, but there was honestly something different between a pair of strangers brought together by unimaginable circumstances and that same pair of strangers becoming friends. There was something more… thorough? Complete? … solid in their connection.

"How're you feelin'?" Tommy asked after a fashion.

She wasn't sure, exactly.

If nothing else, there was this feeling of … contentment? Now that it was starting to really sink in that Tommy was the Detective she'd – she'd revered, in a way, there was an odd sense of something missing that had been found and she was content to simply sit back and bask in it.

"Joan?" he shifted, uncertainty creeping in and poking at that part of her that constantly wanted to take care of the people closest to her.

She was tired, emotionally drained and ready to fall asleep right there in his arms, but that uncertainty still poked at her to comfort him. She didn't know if she had any barriers left standing right now, so she simply snuggled into him and curled in tighter.

"John?" he tried again.

"'kay," she answered. There was no other response she could find.

No other response could work.

No other response _mattered_.

"'m 'kay," she said again.

"Only place left to go is up?" he must've been worried about something, because he relaxed at her weak nod.

She would probably think about that later, but she wasn't thinking right now.

She didn't want to.

"We okay?" he checked again.

She wasn't sure why he would be worried about the state of their – 'friendship' wasn't deep enough and 'relationship' seemed too broad – connection, but he didn't need to be.

The objects – jewelry? – she'd lost had represented him and their fragile, unnamable bond as a direct result of their circumstances at the time of their first meeting. Now that she actually had _him_ , the void left by the objects was filled again – or no longer there at all.

She was moored again.

Anchored.

Grounded.

Perhaps she'd substituted them for him, in a way, and now he was here so she didn't need the bracelet as a reminder that she had someone already connected to her.

She had Tommy, Marcus and Sherlock and they were reminder enough since they were constantly with her.

But Tommy had a concern about the both of them where the concern had no place.

"Yeah," she hoped he was convinced, because he couldn't come up with anything else.

He just hugged her closer in response. "Good."

They sat there in comfortable silence and her eyes were drawn to her slightly uncurled fists, the medallion's weight in one palm and the almost unnoticeable weight in the other.

Her wrist suddenly felt … naked, even though she didn't always wear bracelets.

Why was that?

"Hey," a hand squeezed her arm. "You haven't said anything for a while."

After a long moment, she managed, "What _can_ I say?" she swallowed and went on. "I don't…"

"I know," Tommy didn't need her to finish. "I didn't know what to say, either."

Joan shifted thoughtfully. "Do we need to say anything?"

"No…" he thoughtfully responded. "I'm not sure we do."

She gave a hum and breathed. "It won't… this won't change anything."

Except, maybe it had.

She was still wrung out, but also serene that things had – somehow, for whatever reason – come full circle and her Detective friend had been revealed to have been her Captain friend all along.

Maybe Tommy suspected and agreed to the same thought. "Really believe that? Because I'm not sure it's true. But if something _has_ changed, maybe only time will tell."

"Maybe," she confirmed, brow furrowing as she suddenly looked around, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "What time is it?"

"Probably almost time to make dinner," Tommy responded, almost in bemusement as he looked around, too. "Or eat it."

She felt her stomach grumble and felt her lips quirk in a smile. "I could eat."

Neither made a move to disentangle themselves and she was grateful for that. They would have to eat eventually, though, but she'd missed literal years of this so she could be given some leeway.

Plus, she was comfortable and could easily fall asleep right there.

Which probably meant it was time to move.

"I should get up," she wiped her cheek against her shoulder.

"Yeah," he sighed slightly. "But… it's not like I'll leave right away. I still have a story to tell you."

"You don't have to," she pushed back slightly to look at him, their gazes locking. "I – I'm not… You went through this… realization on your own and then you - you had to sit through my… whatever and I don't think it's a good idea –"

"Why not?" he tilted his head. "We're on the subject, anyway, so it's not that much of a stretch, is it? Besides, it's still fresh and 'a burden halved' and all. Better talk now while we have the chance or who knows what I'll do."

She gave him a look. "What, you want to do a support group meeting?"

"Not as public, but I don't see why not. I have to talk to someone, so why not you?"

Why not her, indeed.

"Come on," he gave her one last squeeze before coaxing her up. "I'll help with dinner."

She reluctantly dragged herself up, already wanting to reach out and anchor herself but resisted and went to go find her phone. Tommy went to the bathroom as she noted how much time had passed and saw a series of texts from Sherlock telling her of a few stream of consciousness thoughts and a new task he was helping a few Irregulars clear up.

He also told her not to expect him back until late if he deigned to go back at all.

"We should be clear for the night," she told Tommy as they made sandwiches, neither one capable of anything beyond that. "So, we won't be interrupted."

"Right," he nodded, keeping an eye on the tea she couldn't quite believe he actually knew how to make.

After eating at the table, they set up a kind of nest against the sofa and settled in close together.

"I can put that on, if you want," he noticed her holding the medallion.

"No, that's okay," she shook her head as she ran her thumb over it. "I'd like to hold it for now."

He nodded and watched her for a minute before reaching up to grab his necklace from the coffee table, wrapping around his wrist a few times before holding out his hand. The small red pendant was sitting in his palm, the writing glinting up at her in the late afternoon sunlight, and she slowly slipped her own palm over it until their fingers sat comfortably threaded through each other.

It took a lot to get to that moment and the significance of it didn't pass her notice like the last time.

The lights were off to help create the right atmosphere and Tommy squeezed her palm against the trapped pendant for a long moment before he gathered his thoughts and started.

"I'm Tommy," he quietly began, the words staying only between them as she inched closer to rest against his side, "and I'm a 9/11 Responder."

They sat there until the sun went down, until the words dried up and only images remained.

Until she'd heard about the battlefield he'd stepped onto, what he saw, what he would never forget until the day he died.

Everything she suspected that only the trapped necklace knew as it lay between their palms.

Every fear, every joy.

Every nightmare, every dream.

She heard it all.

She heard and tucked away every scrap of information he gave her, gathering it all up and sealing it into mental boxes stowed carefully into a vault that not even Sherlock could get into.

Everything that only she and Tommy would ever know, through his eyes.

They sat and faced all of it together, like the team she'd once imagined them to be.

Then, after there was nothing left, she curled into him and let him hold her as tight as she could stand – as tight as he'd clutched the pendant in her stead when he needed to feel some semblance of comfort that he couldn't get anywhere else.

Her eyes opened to see dawn streaming into the living room, Marcus bundled up on the opposite couch and Sherlock sat against it with a stillness she wasn't sure she ever saw in him before.

Tommy was just as out as Marcus as Sherlock's eyes opened halfway to meet her own, legs crossed, palms on his thighs and not a single restless twitch to be seen.

He tilted his head slightly in question, she smiled slightly in response and that was that.

* * *

Epilogue:

* * *

The sun shone down on the proceedings as the names were called out over the crowd, the Freedom Tower watching from high overhead.

Joan stood at the very edges of Ground Zero as a slight breeze trickled over her.

She'd always visited here after the site was cleaned up, ran into a few faces who would light up as 'John' jogged jaded memories to find the bits of shine still left and forgotten, but never when it was crowded like this. Part of her wondered if it was because she hoped she would by chance pick the time that then Detective Gregson would decide to visit.

He told her just a few days ago that he'd only come a couple of times, but never on 9/11.

Marcus never did explain why he never came before and Sherlock had clammed up so tightly on the matter that not even acid could get him to talk.

Not that she'd threatened her roommate with acid, but still.

From Tommy and Marcus' looks, however, she suspected that she was the only one who didn't know the story her own partner refused to tell. She would be upset, or at least disgruntled, had it not been for her own shared secret with Tommy.

One day, maybe Sherlock would tell her in that roundabout way he favored and maybe she would simply find out on her own. Right now, though, she wasn't worried about that.

This was about what happened here, in this place, so long ago now.

Stories about heroes and lost loved ones soaked every inch of the place and everyone present by default.

People were still struggling in ways that she could only suspect, maybe even in ways that Sherlock couldn't deduce or wouldn't understand even if he could.

Others, in more visible ways.

One really couldn't get over 9/11, though some nevertheless tried.

Some addicts from the recent meetings had come out with their own stories about 9/11 and at least one had traced hers directly _to_ 9/11 and the loss of three people she'd been close to.

At least one had confessed to volunteering at Ground Zero and not being able to keep the horror from overwhelming him.

Kitty had called the other day to check in and both she and Joan remembered one meeting and one woman they'd confronted about lying to the group, who had confessed to being grateful that 9/11 had happened. She'd been conflicted and scared to tell the truth and Kitty hadn't been able to understand, but Joan could and hadn't able to judge her for it. With the amount of lives lost that day, there had to have been at least one person whose death was celebrated instead of mourned.

Harlan had stopped by for dinner the same night, completely at a loss until he'd finally told them that he could've ended up a name on a panel, too. According to him, pure luck had saved his life.

Alfredo never said where he'd been, but he was never in New York City the week of 9/11 if he could help it.

All the Irregulars old enough to remember, who were present in the City that day, had either holed up somewhere or was uncharacteristically reserved.

For the first time, Sherlock had actually expressed concern and – dare she think it – _empathy_ for his Irregulars and had set up a small gathering for them to show that they were not alone.

She didn't know what to make of it, even now.

'The Nose' had dragged her out in that subtle, gentlemanly way he had and she'd ended up with new perfume, new tea and new toiletries she'd been meaning to replace anyway.

Gay the Geologist had taken it upon herself to teach Joan and Sherlock about her passion and Mason – who wasn't old enough to really remember – had shyly confided to Joan that she reminded him of a cousin.

She didn't ask what happened to her.

"Watson," she blinked, brought back to the present to see Sherlock take up post at her side.

"Hey," she smiled tiredly. "You okay?"

"Mm," he bobbed his head. "Quite." They listened to a few names before he spoke again. "It really is a lovely ceremony."

She turned to him and saw the button hole poppy that he'd spent the better part of an hour fussing over. "I'm actually surprised you haven't cut out and left, yet," she admitted.

He took a moment to think before answering. "Perhaps, in other circumstances, you would be correct. In this case, I thought it prudent to pay my respects to the living as they mourned the dead. It has been a struggle for many and I must applaud those who still wake up every day. I don't condemn those who do not, because that would be hypocritical of me considering my own failings of which you are well aware. For those that remain and persevere, I must recognize their struggle."

His features held a solemn expression as he looked over the crowd and their surroundings. "It is… extraordinary, you know, how humans are wont to bounce back," he continued in a softer voice. "How a _city_ bounces back. This place is a testament to that. Places, Watson, invite a type of sentiment such as rebirth with the Freedom Tower overhead, freedom and liberty with the Lady in the harbor or a sense of home and belonging as the Brownstone. Even the original World Trade Center was, in part, a symbol of power. What sentiment these places inevitablely draws, however, is… ultimately unpredictable. Here, in this particular place, reflection – more than anything else – is to be encouraged. Perseverance is on display and resilience permeates every corner in every soul touched by the destruction of what the Towers ultimately came to be."

Security.

Happiness.

Belonging.

Innocence.

 _Home_.

"A calm, peaceful lake," Sherlock quietly went on. "A rock crashes into that lake and the ripples are still felt even by the ones most removed from the point of impact. You cannot go back and stop the rock, but you can look forward and deal with it as best you can."

She couldn't find a response and maybe that was for the best.

Some responses simply didn't exist.

They were silent as the names went on.

"Watson?"

"Mm?"

It took him a moment to get the words and push them out. "You… you said a few weeks ago that you said you were not there during the initial attacks. For that… For that, I am grateful."

She sent him a glance to see if there was anything else, but he was nodding to himself and fell silent. She gave a slight nod, too, deciding to leave it there as she turned her attention back to the crowd with a small smile and an ember lit with warmth in her stomach.

"Hey," Marcus appeared on Sherlock's other side in a black suit. "You two holdin' up?"

"I believe the collective term is 'we're okay'," Sherlock answered.

"You?" Joan wanted to know.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Marcus sighed. "Never realized how overwhelming all of this is."

"You've never been here before, right?" Joan frowned. "Can you explain why or…"

Marcus looked out around them with a distant look on his face. "I was a kid who didn't really know what had happened here," he finally told them, Sherlock nodding as if this wasn't news to him somehow.

"I would imagine everyone else in the world didn't quite understand, either," he offered. "For someone like myself, who hadn't been in America at all, the only exposure was through pictures, television and eyewitness testimony. Even a majority of America itself wasn't actually in or around New York City and, thus, were several degrees removed. In order to actually 'really know what had happened here,' you would actually have had to have experienced the entire morning yourself."

"Yeah," Marcus quirked a smile. "Guess you're right."

"So, what changed?" Joan wanted to know.

He was silent for so long that she almost gave up on getting an answer. "I got a taste of it," he finally shrugged.

She'd been there after the Towers came down and that was all the taste she could handle.

The three of them stood silently as names continued to be called out.

This place was unlike anywhere else on earth. Maybe there were others that had a similar history, but this was unique.

Joan had been in this area in the days and weeks after 9/11, seeing things with other volunteers that no one should have to see, experience or recognize.

If she hadn't, she wouldn't be who she was today _where_ she was today.

She looked at Sherlock beside her and Marcus beside him and couldn't imagine herself with anyone else in any other situation.

She didn't want to.

Because this place with these people, in this moment, was where she belonged.

It was almost scary how 9/11 had altered her life even before she realized it.

It was even scarier to think what her life would be like had 9/11 not happened at all.

She honestly didn't know what to think about that.

But they were there now, in the place where it all began.

Where the circle had started.

There was a sense of completeness there, on a different level than Tommy being the one she'd met at Ground Zero, the sense of a story – not ending, exactly, but – turning the page and saying, 'Okay, that part is finished. What's next?'

It was a question she couldn't wait to answer.

"Hey," she glanced to her other side as Tommy appeared, sweeping an appraising gaze over the three of them.

"Hey," Marcus gave him a nod. "How're you doin'?"

Tommy rubbed his mouth and looked over the scene around them. "Okay," he finally decided. "Could be better, but, for now, I'm okay. You?"

"We're okay," he nodded. "Holmes?"

"Of _course_ we're okay," Sherlock told him matter of factly. "Why on earth wouldn't we be? Watson?"

She looked from one to the other two and absently let a hand slip into hers as she thought about her answer.

She and Sherlock were essentially homeless, having lost all of their possessions.

She was still emotionally wrung out from near back-to-back incidents and Chantal was never getting her picture back.

She found the friend she'd made almost twenty years ago and realized that 9/11 was basically the reason she _had_ friends like Tommy and Sherlock and Marcus. And was aware enough to realize that it was kind of a bit not good that she would take 9/11 again if it got her to this point with these men.

As horrible as it was, it was true.

That's what she felt and she would probably hate herself for it when she was alone someday when there were four victims needing justice and a killer that needed taking down.

When kids were showing up in pieces and she would scream her heart out, cursing 9/11 with every sob that made her sound insane.

When one of her boys would sit next to her (Sherlock), touch her hand (Marcus) or pull her into a rib-cracking hug (Tommy) after another case that dredged up nightmares of 9/11 itself.

If that wasn't a love-hate relationship, then she didn't know what was.

And on top of that, she still couldn't shake the naked feeling on her wrist even when she wore a bracelet – like now.

But you know what?

Despite all of it, as long as she had the three of them, her heartbeat echoed with a familiar mantra.

"Yeah," she squeezed his hand and smiled.

"We're okay."

* * *

END OF STORY

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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